


Undying Fidelity

by KiwiMeringue



Series: Undying Fidelity [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Ammy attempts to shoehorn Sigyn into the MCU, And like, F/M, Fix-It, Genderfluid Loki (Marvel), I HAD VERY LITTLE TO WORK WITH, I'M TAGGING THIS MARVEL SIGYN, I'M TAKING SOME LIBERTIES, Implied Sif/Thor, Implied magically coerced noncon, LIKE ALL OF THE LIBERTIES, Minor Jane Foster/Thor, Rated and tagged for Lorelei's CREEPY ASS POWERS, Sort Of, This is now a fix-it fic, Wasn't immediately, also, but obviously - Freeform, eventual endgame spoilers, is saying something is a fix-it inherently a spoiler?, obviously this is assuming, past Loki/Lorelei, that the after credits scene from Ragnarok
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-12-31 21:44:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 83,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18322541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiwiMeringue/pseuds/KiwiMeringue
Summary: With Asgard destroyed, the survivors aboard the Statesman have a long journey ahead before they reach Earth and their hopes of a new home. Having reconciled with his brother, Loki finds himself presented with the chance to revive a long dead connection to someone else he'd once held dear, and maybe, just maybe, enjoy a last moment in the sun before everything goes dark.





	1. The Fool

980 AD: Asgard,  Valaskjálf  Courtyard

“Are you done yet?”

“No.”

A heartbeat. “Alright, how about now?”

The ásynja sitting next to him looks up from the book balanced open between them, struggling to look stern around a dawning smile. “Somehow, I keep losing my place, and having to restart.”   

Loki groans theatrically, nearly toppling the book as he goes sprawling backwards against the yellow cobblestone steps. His reach is unfamiliar, the result of a recent growth spurt, and as his feet kick out, he very nearly trips Fandral. “It’s not my fault you’re the slowest reader in all nine realms,” the young prince teases, grinning, as he props himself back up on his elbows.

“I’m savouring it,” she whispers in reply, with sly, nearly-guilty glance back at him, “you read like Volstagg eats.”

A stubborn winter has finally given way to spring, and the courtyard is warm and sunny, the last few drifts of snow still clinging to the most heavily shadowed places along the palace walls or beneath the balcony where he would sometimes catch his father watching.

The courtyard was empty today, devoid of the usual bustle of the Einherjar as they await the training master for the day’s lesson.  Naturally, all Sif wanted to do while waiting to train was train more, and the other girl has promised that she would join her as soon as she finishes the last few pages of this chapter.

Which, if Loki has his way, will be never.

Sif has had to content herself sparring with Fandral, and the two of them circle each other in the training ring bounded by the stairs. He sidesteps a crushing blow from Sif’s blunted short sword, takes the opportunity of her forward momentum to try slashing at her with his own training saber. She recovered more quickly than Fandral had expected, and the strike glances off her shield.  She swings, and their dulled blades lock with a ringing clang, Fandral on the defensive with Sif’s blade caught against the guard of his own sword, pushed back to the first step. It’s a precarious position, but Fandral’s been stealing glances at the prince and his companion throughout the match, and his eyes flicker back towards them now. He grins, unable to resist the opportunity for a quip. “Maybe get a little closer, Loki,” he says over his shoulder with a waggle of his eyebrows, “you’re not **_quite_** in Sigyn’s lap.”

“If you can devise a better way to share a book, I’d love to hear it,” he replies flatly.

Fandral has something to say to that— something salacious, judging by the gleam in his eye— but that’s when Sif plants her foot against his chest and sends him crashing into the steps. From his seat higher up the stairs, Thor gives an enthusiastic cheer at her victory.

Fandral lands with a thud and a wheeze, winded, and sits up with a slow groan, a genuine rendition of the one Loki had feigned a moment before. Sigyn’s brows knit together in concern as she scurries over to help him to his feet, but he waves her away, interrupting her soft inquiries.

“Nothing hurt but my pride, Sige, but sweet of you to ask,” he assures her as he stands, loosening out the abused muscles in his back. "Your turn!” he steals a glance back at Sif, pacing the edge of the ring, and offers a wincing smile. “Best of Luck.”  

Sif stops at the foot of the steps, running a hand through her dark hair to smooth down the few wisps that had come free of her ponytail during the match, and watches her friend expectantly. “Come on,” Sif’s tone leaves little room for argument as she takes a step back into the center of the ring. “Your mother is due to return any time now.  Do you want to have to tell her you spent all your time over that book? Or that you actually did some training?”

She opens her mouth to reply, but reconsiders. That worried look on Sigyn’s face deepens, her free hand drifting to worry the braid over her shoulder, a familiar sign of unease. The conflict in Vanaheim had worn on longer than anyone had anticipated; their father had left that morning to join the fray, himself— a sign of dire circumstances, but also of an imminent conclusion.  

In the meantime, he knows how to get her smiling again. A mischievous grin lights his face as Loki leans in closer.  “Yes, stop reading, you degenerate,” he whispers against the shell of her ear, “punch your friend in the teeth like a productive member of society.”

Sigyn nudges him disapprovingly, but stifles a laugh, and seems to have found her voice again. She plucks at the single page remaining in the chapter. “I’m almost done, Sif,” she entreats, giving Loki another gentle shove when he gleefully interjects that no, no she isn’t. “Just give me five minutes; I’ll be right down.”

“Fine,” Sif says, rolling her eyes and throwing up her hands, but her tone is still warm. “You have two.”

Sigyn’s smile fades to a look of deliberate concentration as she dives back into the book with new energy, determined to tackle the passage in the time allowed and despite her mind’s natural tendency to wander. Loki tries to divert her again, only managing a syllable before she very softly clasps a hand over his mouth, and whatever he was going to say becomes muffled laughter against her palm.

There were, of course, more efficient ways to share a book, but none quite so entertaining. She inevitably takes longer to reach the end of the open pages than he does. He’d made a game of it: watching Sigyn’s face as he waited for her to catch up, trying to guess exactly where she was. In this case, the end of the chapter sees something sudden, horrible, (and in retrospect, heavily foreshadowed), happen to a character of which he knew her to be particularly fond, and he’s just dying to watch her expression when she hits those last few lines.  Sigyn has the unlucky habit of feeling much, and deeply, and openly, and her face conceals very little. Her warm, honey-brown eyes trace the lines of text, brows furrowing as something like dawning outrage begins to creep into the set of her features, and—

Something catches him under the arm, and with one forceful tug, his brother has hauled him to his feet.  “I was reading—“ he objects as soon as he’s found a solid footing, but his brother is oblivious to his indignation,  a broad grin stretching across his face.

“She’s reading; you’re **_stalling_**. Come along, I’ll go mad if I’m made to sit still a moment longer. Or,” his grin widens, his tone grows challenging, “are you still too embarrassed from the last time I trounced you?”

Loki bristles. Thor is joking, of course, but it lands a little too close to the truth. With a measured breath, he schools his expression into something less prickly. “Fine, fine,” Loki concedes, shrugging free of his brother’s grasp. 

“Wait—”

Sigyn had arrived at their meeting place, enthusing over the Hawk she’d found perched on her roof when she left that morning, and the lovely feather it had shed. He pauses midway down the steps to glance over his shoulder, and she draws it from her boot— her favoured hiding place for all such treasures— lays it carefully between the pages of the book as a marker before resting it on the step and getting to her feet.

“I did promise Sif a match,” she smiles at him as she catches up, and takes her place besides the other girl. “We could always make it two-on-two,” she suggests, and glances hopefully from Sif to Thor and himself, then back again. Sif shakes her head before Thor can agree, her stare reproachful.

“Later. You give me one good bout, and then you can lark about all you like, alright?”

“Alright,” Sigyn echoes ruefully, before conceding and turning to consider training weaponry.  She eases a wooden shield away from the rack and on to her left arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, settles on a spear, as usual. Her real weapon of choice isn’t an option— a difficulty they have in common. Sigyn takes a deep breath to steady herself before turning back to the ring, and colliding with Thor as he reaches for a greatsword. “Sorry, sorry! Just… distracted, I guess,” she offers, but his brother’s response is a good-natured chuckle and a raised eyebrow as he takes in her unease.

“You can’t be afraid of her,” he begins, a cheering hand clapped against her shoulder. “Take courage, Sige, trust your talents, drink in the thrill of battle—” Thor’s smile brightens as something occurs to him, “pretend she’s a Frost Giant!”

“ ** _Thor_** ,” Loki hisses sharply. He’d been watching the exchange from a step behind his brother, and now comes to his side. Sigyn’s tensed visibly, any progress Thor had made setting her at ease now vanished, but his brother doesn’t seem to have noticed, and still looks terribly pleased with himself.

“What?” he begins incredulously, still cheerful. “You don’t think killing one will make her feel better?”

Loki’s eyebrows furrow, retort ready, but Sigyn, perhaps sensing the altercation brewing, intercedes.  “I hope I never have reason to,” she says before he can reply, her voice soft. “We aren’t at war with them anymore.”

Thor smiles down at her, already considerably taller, and chuckles to himself at that, as though he’s found it endearingly childish from the lofty height of his year-and-a-half’s seniority. “You don’t treat with monsters, Sige, you slay them.” She braves a weak little smile in response, but doesn’t look encouraged so much as stunned. “I promise you, first one we encounter— all yours,” Thor gives that same shoulder an affectionate pat before releasing her and starting towards the far end of the ring, testing the weight of his chosen practice sword as he goes.

She then turns to Loki beside her, and the look she gives him is familiar: appreciative but gently reproachful. 

Loki’s mouth works for a moment. He’s usually so good with words, they come to him as easily as breath, but he’s struggling now, half-formed thoughts dying on his lips, disarmed by her placating expression: something like an apology, something about his brother’s complete lack of tact and remarkable ability to continue speaking with his entire foot stuffed in his mouth, something to make her laugh. Something about how if she isn’t going to be outraged, she could at least let him do it on her behalf.

“Sigyn!”

She starts at Sif’s voice behind her, impatient verging on exasperated. “Coming!” she calls over her shoulder, and she shoots him a guilty little smile before she scurries away to the other aspiring shieldmaiden. Thor’s made space for them away from the ásynjur, and gestures enthusiastically towards the weapons.  Loki sighs, and with a cursory glance at the provided weaponry, settles for a shorter sword, not unlike Sif’s. Something as large and unwieldy as the one Thor’s chosen would be a hindrance, but it has to be sturdier than Fandral’s saber to stand up to it.  His brother’s so anxious to get started he’s practically bounding in place when Loki faces him, errant little sparks crackling by his fingertips.

They have Fandral announce a start, and the courtyard rings with the clashing of wood and metal.  Loki is faster, more careful, keeps his distance from his brother’s wilder, more powerful swings, but Thor has far better reach. Loki narrowly darts out of the way of a swipe with the greatsword and curses under his breath in frustration. His instinct is to get up **_inside_** of Thor’s guard, too close for the longer weapon to be effective, and he longs for his daggers. He can feel the tempting weight of them, in the little pocket of space where he’s stored them with his magic, but he grits his teeth and resists.

He steals glances at the other match out of the corner of his eye. Sigyn’s having the opposite problem, using the reach of her spear to keep Sif at bay.

His brother’s smiling, laughing, goading as he tries to lure Loki into a direct confrontation.  There’s nothing like that going on behind him. Sif’s eyes are hard, face set deadly serious as she swings at the other girl with well-practiced brutality. Sigyn deflects each strike, this one splintering her shield, and retaliates with a ferocity that should not suit her. There’s a nervous glint in her eyes, though, in stark contrast to Sif’s steely confidence. 

If he didn’t know better, it would look as though they were trying to kill each other, the intensity born from familiarity, and countless hours training against one another. He’s fairly certain that recently, Sif has been spending more time at Sigyn’s house than her own.

A sidelong glance catches the moment Sif slips— a loose flagstone shifting under her back foot and throwing off her balance. It’s only an instant before she recovers, but in that moment her guard drops and there’s no way Sigyn hasn’t seen the opportunity.

She doesn’t take it.

Thor must be watching as well, because he groans when Sigyn hesitates, just keeps her defensive position and waits for Sif to catch her footing.

A moment later, blade locked with his brother’s, he hears her spear clatter to the ground, and after that, Sif knocking her legs out from under her and the dull thud of a body hitting the cobblestone pavement, a breathless cry.  He sneaks another look, and sure enough Sif has her pinned to the ground with her arm twisted behind, knee driven into Sigyn’s back as she struggles to free herself for a moment, then concedes, settling against the stonework with a resigned sigh.

Their fights always end the same way. He knows the feeling all too well.    

Thor gives a powerful shove, sending him reeling backwards, and Loki very nearly ends up in a similar position. He hisses in frustration as he rights himself, the culmination of so many little annoyances simmering to the surface.  His brother looks a little too sure of himself, and it’s no wonder he  always wins, fighting like **_this_**., fettered by the constraints of what their instructors consider proper.  Well, their instructor isn’t here, yet.

Just this once, he’s not ending up in the dirt.

Time to remind Thor what he can really do.

He side-steps another swing and strikes with his own sword, Thor’s smile widening at his sudden enthusiasm as they clash again.  It’s tricky, disguising the necessary wave of his hand as an attempt to regain his balance, but—

Loki doesn’t evade in time, and the blade connects with his shoulder, sending a splatter of blood across the masonry.

Thor freezes the instant he sees it, eyes wide, and Loki lunges, wrenching the sword from his grasp with a well-placed strike and ending the swing an inch from Thor’s throat. “Ha!” He lets out a satisfied crow, but the victorious smile fades as his brother’s eyes quickly change from bewilderment to blazing **_fury_** , and he can feel what may be a crackling shift in the air around him raising the hairs on the back of his neck. The familiar reflex to bolt kicks in, but before he can spring out of his enraged sibling’s reach, there’s a hand on his neck, then his shoulder, and he turns to find Sigyn has thrown Sif off of her and hurried to his side.

“Loki, are you— where—?” She murmurs as she frantically checks him over, and his heart sinks as she examines her hands, which come away clean from the bloodied fabric of his shirt. 

“He’s fine, Sigyn,” Thor says, jaw tight, and eyes narrowed. “One of his little tricks.”  

Loki grimaces, bracing himself for her reaction as he reluctantly releases the illusion, the blood splashed against the ground and soaking his clothes vanishing in a flash of emerald light.  Sure enough, when she looks up at him, her eyes are shining with betrayal. He chuckles nervously, his natural showmanship withering under her wounded gaze. “Ta-daa...?” Without a word, she turns on her heel and walks away, collects her lost spear and racks the borrowed equipment, then up the steps and out of the training ring towards the edge of the courtyard. “Sige, wait—“She doesn’t stop, and turning he finds himself faced with nothing but disapproving glares.

Thor’s still scowling at him, Sif’s expression is a truly impressive display of contempt, and from his seat upon the steps, Fandral is watching him eyebrows raised. “Excellent work, Loki,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm, “truly outstanding.”   

He spares a quick, pointed look at the other boy as he tears after her, scooping the book from its place on the step as he goes. He catches up just as she’s reached the shadows of a still-snowy corner, her back kept to him. He can see her busy herself by undoing her braid, fingers combing uneasily through the auburn tresses, beginning to plait it again, and then restarting.   

“Let’s take a break. We could read some more,” he begins, hopefully, fingers drumming against the book’s cover. No response, and if anything she turns away more completely.

“Look, I’m sorry I cheated. I’d never do that against you, I swear it; It was only meant for— It’s just… **_Thor_** ,” he sighs, rests his face in his hand as he thinks.  “Don’t you get tired of ending up under Sif’s boot, again and again?” Sif isn’t her sister, but that comes with its own complications.

She doesn’t answer for a second, still tense, and then, very quietly, “She disarmed Mum, the last time she was over.” His eyes widen, startled, and he can see the curve her face as she shifts, a little twinge just shy of a smile, a familiar mixture of pride and heartbreak.  “I can’t keep up with her, anymore.” The smile disappears, and the breath she lets out is shaky. Her voice is thick. “Even Aesir can bleed out… And quickly,” she gives up on the braid, just wringing the bundle of hair in her hands. “I saw blood; I— from the ground I couldn’t tell where you’d been struck, I—” Sigyn lets a discouraged hiss slip through her clenched teeth and her fingers rake through more aggressively than before, leaving a disheveled cascade of copper waves, the tie still caught around her fingers. 

His eyebrows knit together, that cold, guilt-ridden discomfort spreading through his chest as he finally pieces together what’s happened. She was already uneasy, her cheerful disposition a fragile veneer over troubles stacked precariously atop one another, and he’s just sent them toppling. 

“Sige,” he begins carefully, moving closer to his friend, and only proceeding when she doesn’t seem to mind. “Look, even if someone were hurt— which, given what we’re doing, is bound to happen eventually— it won’t be like last time,” he gestures up towards the palace walls with a nod of his head, catches her eyes following him. “We’re a minute from the healers, here. Still, I… I am sorry I scared you.”

“And Thor,” she adds, back still to him.

Loki rolls his eyes. “Thor’s just upset that I got the better of him. I’ll stop doing it when he stops falling for—”

“And. Thor,” Sigyn repeats more firmly.

“And Thor,” Loki concedes. A glance over his shoulder finds the others spectating, and he does feel a sharp twinge of remorse in his older brother’s direction. Her rigid posture has slackened slightly, and he can catch her stealing glances like she wants to face him, but she’s still not entirely ready to leave her corner, ankle-deep in a melting snowdrift. He joins her, wet snow crunching under his boots, leans against the cool brickwork of the wall, smiles at her. “Gentle Sigyn. You know you worry too much?”

“I’m more of a worrier than a warrior,” she admits quietly.

“And it seems, more loving of wordplay than swordplay.” Her eyes dart back towards him for a moment— he can see that they’re glassy— but there’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth as she thinks.

“Words are said to be mightier than swords,” she says after a moment’s pause, turning ever so slightly towards him.  It’s a game, now. She can’t resist games.

“Only with a rapier wit.” It’s so easy to fall into this pattern with her, this easy back and forth, a friendly rally of an idea or a joke until they can’t remember where they started. 

Back across the courtyard, Sif climbs out of the recessed training ring and rolls her eyes. “If you two are done flirting?” she shouts.

Loki turns to her, grinning. “We’re not flirting, we’re **_flyting_** —”

Sigyn shakes her head, and there’s a genuine smile creeping across her face, now. “Far too friendly for flyting.”

“—also alliterating, apparently,” Loki calls back over his shoulder as an addition. Loki faces Sigyn again, now able to look her in the eye, and then after a pause, softly, “I am so sincerely sorry, Sige.”

She thinks for a moment, lips moving silently as she test the feel of the response, the bounding cadence, and then, “you’re lucky I like you, Loki.”

 “So very, very lucky,” he agrees, which startles her, and he can only smile at that.  “Shall we?” Loki offers her his arm (very unnecessarily) to help her down from the tiny snowdrift, and she accepts, with an appropriate mock-seriousness, which she manages to maintain for all of two seconds before a supressed giggle crinkles her nose, and she lets out that wonderful kind of laugh that’s more of a snort.

He has one last question as they make their way back to their companions, and the chilly reception no doubt awaiting him. “When you were suggesting two-against-two… You were trying to get Thor and me on the same side, weren’t you?”

 “It never ends well when you compete, it’s just too…” her eyes light with a devious, delighted little smile that can only mean one thing, and he waits, eyebrows raised, watching expectantly, “…charged.”  

Loki cackles, a little at the joke itself, and mostly at how terribly proud of it she is. The rest is relief: if Sigyn’s making terrible puns unprompted, she must be feeling better.  He’s already contemplating solutions to avoid this concern again—a feigned vulnerability is a viable strategy, and not one he’s willing to part with long term. If he were to devise some way to signal to her that he was all right, that it’s all part of a plan…  

It’s a good idea; he never does get around to it.

Thor’s waiting for him in the ring, still grouchy, his solid arms folded across his chest. “You cheated,” he accuses.

Loki passes the book back to Sigyn, who stops at the steps and sits back down in their spot from before. She opens the book, but keeps her eyes on the brothers, in case she needs to diffuse another altercation. Without looking down, she draws the hawk feather from the pages, and carefully slips it back into her boot beside the slim hunting knife concealed there.

Loki ends up mirroring him, crosses his own arms across his narrower frame, and rolls his eyes. “For all the foes you face will fight fairly?” Thor quirks a blond eyebrow. “Sorry, I’ve started and now I can’t seem to stop. I—”   when he glances back to Sigyn, she smiles at him, gently, encouraging, and he sighs.  “I’ll admit I went too far—”

“That was a dirty trick,” Thor grumbles, sorely.

“That does happen to be my specialty.”

 “That—“ His brother pauses, seems to look past him, the scowl on his face soon forgotten as a grin breaks out in it’s place. “That’s ** _F **a** ther_**.” Loki turns on his heel to where Thor’s eyes fall over his shoulder. Sure enough, in the distance, the bridge glows with rainbow light as the power of the bifrost courses through it— a sustained glow of a few seconds, but longer than the single burst that would mark the transportation of a few individuals: the Einherjar returned from Vanaheim.  

“Race you!” Thor’s already picked up a jubilant sprint, and Sigyn scrambles her feet, the two of them tearing out of the courtyard as fast as their legs will carry them. Fandral follows at a more leisurely pace, leaving the courtyard to the two dark haired teenagers.

Sif’s mouth is drawn into a thin line as she studies him, but from the height of the courtyard they can see their more excitable friends racing full-tilt through the city streets, breathless laughter carrying, down towards the bridge, and she smiles a little, shaking her head as they vault over a railing to a lower terrace. Sigyn darts between the villagers milling about below— as Thor comes barreling through, they instinctually know to part.

Loki scoops the book, forgotten in her haste, waving it away to that place, just barely removed from the rest of space, that he can call upon with his magic, and the two start the long walk to the bifrost in chilly silence. Sif’s parents are hard at work somewhere in the palace, pouring over documents and debating policy; she’s in no hurry. Loki contemplates changing his pace to get out of lock step with Sif, but doesn’t, and finally can’t keep quiet any longer. “You’re too hard on her.”  

“I’m the only one actually trying to **_help_** her,” she replies tersely, eyes still forward. “The rest of you just play around, she’ll never improve that way. Sigyn needs someone to push her, she’s so…” she shakes her head, searching for the right word, eventually settling for _soft-hearted_ , said with a quick glance over her shoulder, lest someone hear such a terrible condemnation.

“You’re going to discourage her,” Loki insists. “Sigyn’s not exactly enamored with combat in the first place, and even less so since you’ve been trying to take her head off.”

“I’m trying to keep her **_alive_**. We’ll be allowed to venture outside of Asgard soon; I’m merely ensuring she’s ready—”

“Oh please,” he retorts with a sidelong roll of his eyes. “They’re talking about letting us travel to **_Midgard_** … With Volstagg, at the very least. She’s not aggressive, certainly, but she’ll gain confidence, in time. It will be a long while before we face anything like actual danger, and she has been more cautious, since… well.”

They reach the same plateau, opting for the stairs instead of the other two’s more direct route over the balustrade, and Sif’s jaw is still set stubbornly as she shakes her head again. “She isn’t cautious, she’s **_afraid_**. Thor might rush headlong into things, but at least he knows to start swinging when he gets there.”   

“If you honestly think Thor’s sort of impulsive is more manageable than Sigyn’s, you’re welcome to switch with me.”  Silence between them, save their footfalls against the cobblestones and the distant bustle of the marketplace. “That’s what I thought.” Far below, he can see the distant shape of Thor as he skids to a triumphant halt at the start of the bridge, Sigyn’s smaller figure a few seconds behind him. Loki and Sif exchange a look, and their brisk walking pace becomes a sprint.

They reach the centerline of the city, follow the straight path that leads through Valaskjálf itself to the Bifrost Bridge and the observatory.  The bridge is alight with magic, pulses of energy traveling along the glassy surface, warriors marching back in loose formation, led by a single imposing figure atop Sleipnir’s unmistakable silhouette.

They meet the returning army halfway across the bridge, Sif dashing into the crowd as Loki approaches his father. He’s slowed Sleipnir to a walk, Thor following along beside him.  It seems to come in waves, but the magnitude of his brother’s power has recently outpaced his control, and he’s asking after the details of the campaign with such enthusiasm that he’s sparking again, blue-white electricity arcing between his fingers.   

“Welcome home, Father.”

Thor’s face brightens at the sound of his brother’s voice, and their father draws in a slow breath, looking from one to the other with his good eye. “My sons,” he says in greeting, beckoning Loki closer. Drawing nearer, he can see his father’s smile is weary.

Fandral’s found his father and cousins, a group of fine-featured blonds off to the side of the bridge.  There’s no sign yet of Volstagg.

It makes another absence all the more conspicuous.

There’s a flash of movement against the current of Einherjar, a slight figure in canary-yellow weaving between ranks of golden-armored men. Sif has caught up with her, but she keeps darting away, wandering this way and that with increasing urgency.

Something is wrong, and by Thor’s troubled expression, he’s noticed it too. Fandral’s gone quiet, taking a step back from his family for a clearer look across the bridge. Loki’s eyes dart back to his father, desperate for some explanation to ease the sinking feeling settling into his chest, and finds only that same solemn air. “Sigrun’s daughter,” he assesses. 

Loki spins on his heel as Sif’s voice rings out. There are a series of slanted stone posts spaced along the edge of the bridge’s near side, and Sigyn has scrambled atop one to get a better look over the mass of returning warriors. Lady Sigrun has never been one to lag behind, and still no sign of her.   

Sif’s insisting she get down, but Sigyn isn’t listening, instead calls for her mother, then again, growing frantic. There’s a moment of hesitation, and then she springs to the next post to get farther along the bridge, then the next. She’s usually sure-footed, but it’s a very long way down, and though they’re still over water, the current is unforgiving, and sweeps over the edge. Sif hastens around the advancing soldiers, struggling to catch up with this crystal-clear illustration of her earlier fears: Sigyn urged into recklessness by a blind panic.  She loses her footing for an instant against the angled surface, but just barely catches herself.

Loki and Thor both start towards her at once, but from behind they hear a soft command to wait, and from the corner of his eye, Loki sees a flash of gold as his father just barely raises Gungnir. A strong breeze from over the sea sends her tumbling towards the safety of the bridge, and into Sif’s arms.   

Sif isn’t chastising her, just rests an arm around her shoulder, which shake with the force of the her unsteady breaths, the look in Sigyn’s eyes pure dread. She knows.

There’s a ripple through the ranks of the Einherjar and when Volstagg approaches her, his expression is heavy-hearted, his helm in his hands.

That worry solidifies into a horrifying certainty, its crushing weight in his chest pinning him in place. He takes a breath, wills his leadened limbs back under his control and tries to run to her again, but he’s stopped by his father’s hand on his shoulder, strong enough to keep him in place even when he tries to wrench himself free.

“Come along, boys,” Odin says, gentle, but unmistakably a command. “Leave her be. Your friend is about to have a very trying day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit from the future: To any new readers, obviously, I did not get to the relevant point in the fic Endgame. I was.... a little ambitious, and did not realize how out of control this fic was going to spiral. 
> 
> I'm going to try and keep my notes here concise, but I made a Sideblog for my Tumblr (EDIT: I cannot get this link to work, it's GeminiJackdaw on tumblr) that's going to be full of screaming about whatever I'm currently working on. Just to kick things off, though, this one's going to be a little longer. 
> 
> I struggle with chapters, and where to draw a line between them, very, very much. So originally this chapter was going to be much, much longer. I'd say I'm about 90% done what was initially going to be chapter 1, but I desperately wanted to publish this Loki-centric fic on international shit disturber's day, and this seemed like a good place to cut it. Also, it's appropriate that I'm uploading on April fool's day, because that I'm determined to finish this by Endgame is a huge joke. I likely won't get it done in time, my self-imposed deadline being the 27th, the date of my last exam, so the earliest I could see it If I'm able to get tickets. I've been fighting with this thing for months now, so the fact that I'm going to try and NaNo this bitch and get 'er done by the 27th is insane, but it may be a good exercise in shutting up my inner critic long enough to get something done. I wrote this chapter so many times, you guys, after plotting out SO MANY versions of this story. There comes a point where you have to just pick one and do it, so this is what I'm going with; however, I feel like if I'm not going to just wait for endgame to come out and see how things play out, I should get it done before that, because Endgame will likely make all of this impossible and/or irrelevant, and I'm trying to stay what I'll call cannon-plausible. 
> 
> I've had the major beats of this plotted out for a very long time, and have read some other Logyn fics in the meantime, and I have noticed some similarities that I was already pretty committed to. I hope this is different enough to justify a few things they share. I've read _Storm's Eye_ by ReneAusten and _Jötunheimr _byAylithe (Parts 1 and what was written of 2) and was completely floored by both. They're both very different, I highly recommend both of them, and if anyone gets even a fraction of the enjoyment out of this that I got reading those, I'll be a very happy writer. These guys are like Olympic swimmers, and I'm not even in the kiddy pool. I'm in a ball pit. This is the most self-indulgent garbage I've ever written, but fuck it, I'm having fun. __  
> __  
> Conversely, I would also like to apologize in advance for character choices that basically come out of nowhere. I swear to god there was a thought process, which I may go through on the writing blog, if anyone's interested. Mostly just 'minor comic book or mythological reference that got way out of hand.'  
>     
> From the bottom of my heart, I'd like to thank anyone who's read this far, and I sincerely hope you enjoy!  
> 


	2. Death

 

2018 AD: Somewhere in Space (Formerly Asgard)

 

_A good seat from which to watch Asgard burn._

Had there been any little part of him, buried deep in the darkest place in his heart, that had meant those words when he said them, it’s long gone now.

Loki can do little more than watch the place where home had been, long after the shockwaves have stopped buffeting the small craft, until the threat of the debris hurtling through space finally forces him onwards.  The _Commodore_ is faster than the _Statesman_ , and it doesn’t take long to catch up to the larger ship, steadily sailing away from the still-bright wreckage of their planet.

Loki hesitates, paused at the console before the final approach, ready to ease the _Commodore_ to land atop the other vessel, but his fingers curl around the thrusters. He could simply keep flying. Speed right past the _Statesman_ and keep on going, destined for any of the countless places in the galaxy to which someone of his talents (not to mention current assets) could so easily disappear, again. He could go anywhere, be anyone. Be no one.  No one’s brother, no one’s son, no past, no debts to repay— tear the red-stained pages from his ledger and pretend they never were.

_You’ll always be the God of Mischief…_

It would be so easy.

_… but you could be more._

The _Commodore_ docks with a pneumatic hiss, and he drops through a connecting hatch in the floor to the tiny hangar housing the _Statesman’_ s emergency vessel. The hangar is empty, and he can hear the general din of a crowd in close quarters from down the corridor towards the central chamber and bridge of the ship.  He steals into the room, keeping close to the walls, not entirely sure how he’ll be received now that the immediate threat is over, and they have little more use for him.

He feels the weight of the crowd’s scrutinizing gaze, but it doesn’t fall quite so heavily as had the last time, before Thor had hauled him back to Midgard in search of Odin. Most barely take notice of him, but there are some suspicious glares, some whispers, some shrink away as he passes. His rescue has bought him tolerance, but no more; deep mistrust, but no outright hostility. Though, they may simply be lacking the strength for it. The atmosphere is sepulchral as the adrenalin wears off and the fear and loss are finally sinking in. There are blank stares and glassy eyes, some huddled together trying to comfort one another, some still searching for friends, or loved ones, separated in the confusion.

There’s no sign of Thor, but the lack of outright panic assures him that his brother must be around somewhere. The hulk is easy to spot, towering over the rest of the crowd even without the raised dais at the other side of the chamber, fixated on the view of Asgard’s ruin through the bridge’s largest porthole. Through the crowd Loki is fairly certain he sees the Valkyrie is beside him, but doesn’t venture closer to verify, just wanders the periphery of the crowd, looking for familiar faces.

Asgard was never densely populated by most planet’s standards, but that what remains fits, more or less comfortably, onto a Sakaaran transport barge presents a visceral picture of their losses. Though he can’t match everyone to a name, over the course of a thousand years, he’s bound to have encountered each of them at some point or another, and most are at least passingly familiar, some far more so. He sees some of the ladies of the court, some dressed down, others in ruined finery. Sunna and Bil are together as always (though they seem to have gotten their hands on **_swords_** , which, even after everything else today, still warrants a double-take). There’s no sign of the warriors three, and what Loki overhears from the crowd’s chatter confirms them dead. He spots Volstagg’s widow, Hildegund, and their four children, all safely aboard. Röskva and her brother Thjálfi are huddled with a few others from the royal household staff.  His eyes pass over the crowd, and something tightens in his chest.

On Sakaar, he’d been plagued by the same dream: a little red vixen, running for her life from a monstrous black hound. Sometimes she hid, tucked tight into a dark burrow as the sound of baying grows nearer; sometimes in full flight, heart pounding as if to burst; and sometimes, finally, cornered at a precipice, with nothing to do but stand and fight, hopelessly outmatched as the snarling beast closed in—

 _Signs of an overactive imagination_ , he’d told Thor, but he knew better. He’s the one who understands _seidr_ and sorcery.  He knew better then, and he knew better when he said it to himself each time he jolted awake, hair plastered to his face with cold sweat. He convinced himself that both the cause, and the solution, to his problems were excessive amounts of alien liquor, and drank himself back into dreamless, guiltless sleep. 

But then the _Statesman_ had pulled through the fog, and he’d found what remained of Asgard: trapped, defiant, doomed, waiting for death or deliverance— for Hela or for him. It’s when he catches himself scanning the crowd for copper hair that he finally has to admit that he knew, had always known, whose terror it was reaching out to him across the cosmos. 

Something catches his eye— deep pink fabric, embroidered with a garden’s worth of bright, cheery flowers at its border, hand-stitched a little at a time over the course of countless boring meetings, functions, and get-togethers. But the owner is not the wearer— a different ásynja wraps herself in the shawl, a woman he recognizes vaguely from the kitchens, exhausted, an infant in her arms and two girls trailing behind her.

“Looking for something?” Loki starts, a hushed curse under his breath as he turns to find Heimdall watching him, smiling in that infuriating, knowing way he has. “My sight is limited, here, but if it’s something on the ship you’re missing…”   

Loki assures himself that he isn’t, not really. It’s just a nagging feeling, an anxious curiosity to satisfy, something that should be here that he’s beginning to suspect is not. He’s trying not to think too hard about what that implies. It may even be a relief, in time.

Heimdall directs him to a set of rooms down the hall, out of the way, where Eir and her healers have set up with their wounded and are now seeing to Thor’s eye. Loki can’t resist one last fruitless pass around the hallway before finally resigning himself to the obvious conclusion.

Eir appears in the doorway of the room just as he moves to enter it, methodically cleaning blood from her hands, and looks him over. “Ah, there you are,” she gestures across the hall to a smaller room. “We thought best to give him some privacy,” she explains, “but he should be ready to see you, now.”

He finds his brother contemplating a drink, absently prodding at the eyepatch now fixed over his empty socket. There’s a moment of weary silence when he makes his presence known, Thor greets him, threatens him with a hug, but the playful banter is weighted with resignation— until he the moment he realizes his little brother’s truly come home to stay.

Loki does so enjoy subverting expectations.

Coming back down the hall, they’re met with the Aesir filling the main chamber, and Thor hesitates. There they are, side by side, as Thor prepares to step out and face his people. It feels like a lifetime ago they were here before. Despite the ache the memory leaves, a sly, deliberate smile pulls at Loki’s mouth. “Not nervous, are you?”

“Yes,” Thor admits, this time. He then claps a hand to Loki’s shoulder and studies him for a long moment, looks sincerely into his brother’s eyes with the one left to him. “I couldn’t do this without you.”

He believes Thor means it, but that doesn’t make it true.

“Go on,” he returns the gesture, then nudges Thor’s shoulder towards the gathered Asgardians, “they’re waiting. I’m right behind you.”  Thor nods, takes a deep breath to steady himself, and starts forward, the crowd parting for him as he passes. Self-assured, but somber, so markedly different than the brash young prince he’d been— a king, truly. And as he takes his place at the helm, their makeshift throne, it’s a very different kind of feeling settling into Loki’s chest. Not familiar, venomous resentment, but something quieter, heavier, bittersweet— the weight of all that wasted time, clinging to the certainty that this is right.  His brother smiles as he creeps up along the edge of the crowd to stand beside him, and it abates, a little— he feels it no less, but suddenly it’s easier to breathe in spite of it. There’s a flicker of uncertainty when Thor announces their destination, but he’ll worry about that later.

At this ship’s speed, Midgard is weeks away and gradually, the Asgardians and remaining Sakaarian gladiators make themselves comfortable.  Over the next few hours, the main hall becomes a sort of makeshift camp, as people settle in groups, sitting or resting to the sides, or mill about in the middle. The air is still tense, the mood low, but Thor’s lit a hope in the survivors, and the life seems to be returning to them.

Loki lurks while Thor sets about mingling. Practically, he’s taking stock of who survived, what skills they have available, but mostly it’s trying to comfort distraught citizens and reintroducing the Valkyrie to what remains of her home. It is, in addition, he realizes as the hours wear on, for Thor to reassure the people about him. He keeps trying to excuse himself, but Thor finds some way to pull him into the conversation, tries to bridge the uneasy gap between his little brother and the survivors.

He appreciates Thor’s efforts, sees what he’s trying to do: lend Loki some of the immense goodwill they have for him, like if he can just pull him in close enough, he might share in that halo, but it may just be bringing his failings into sharper relief. This is a lost cause. Even before his… fall, the general populace had never quite taken to him as they had Thor, and that was before he had deserved it.

Well-loved people don’t need to write their own commemoratives. 

Still, he’s polite and gracious, if withdrawn, reflex calling up that deeply ingrained princely manner, and he reminds himself, when that still-present ache urges him to leave, that he is, above all else, doing this for Thor.   

Thor puts on a brave smile for them, but Loki can see it waning with each wish of condolences he’s offered for the loss of his friends.  Some generous souls even extend those same sympathies to him, and he thanks them, but it isn’t the same. He feels… something, certainly, but he knows grief— the guilt, and rage, and that gut-wrenching, world-shattering, knife-to-the-heart despair— and this is not it. But Thor… He knows his brother well enough to recognize the pain he’s hiding behind that grin, and he might have a way to ease it. 

“Follow me,” Loki taps him on the shoulder to catch his attention between greetings, then takes a few steps towards one of the side corridors, “I have a surprise for you.” He isn’t asking, just starts away before Thor can refuse, and sure enough, a moment later his brother’s caught up to him. 

“That sounds so ominous when you say it,” Thor raises an eyebrow. “This is going to end in me getting stabbed, isn’t it?”

“No,” Loki assures him as they reach the communications center, “I, however, am in serious danger of evisceration.”

He leans over the console, begins fiddling with frequencies, glancing back to find Thor puzzling over the address of his intended target, somewhere on Ria. A gruff voice crackles over the system, and he replies. “Yes, hello. This is Asgard, would I be able to speak to our agent stationed with you?” There’s a grumble from the other end, but the presumably-Kronan operator instruct them to wait. Thor looks to him for an explanation, but he doesn’t answer, just waits until the static comes back over the device and watches as his brother’s jaw slackens, good eye wide at the sound as the Lady Sif reports in.

 “I needed her out of the way,” he explains, as his brother stares, transfixed, at the source of his last remaining, lifelong friend’s voice, “so I sent her on a peacekeeping mission to Ria. Nothing dangerous, just… endless, and annoying.” Loki can’t keep the smirk on his face as he pictures her there, trying to quell millennia of tension between warring Kronan factions in prefect Sisyphean futility. He means to simply hand the radio over, but he can see tears gathering and he gives Thor a moment to collect himself. He should probably change his voice, but he can’t resist, and opens the line to reply.  “Hello, Sif.”

There’s a very long pause from the other end, and then slowly, “who is this?”

“Who do you hear?”

Even through the grainy audio, her voice blazes.  “You **_bastard_** —”

“Easy, easy. I’m afraid I have a great deal of unfortunate news, but I’ll let you hear it from someone you better like.”  Thor nods, and carefully eases the radio from his hands, voice still thick when he speaks.

“Sif? Sif, it’s so good to hear you.”

“Thor?” The rage is gone, it’s disbelief and delight, but then worry as she continues, “Thor, what’s happened?”

“Sif, I…” he winces, takes another unsteady breath, still caught between sorrow and joy, “You might want to sit down, for this.” 

Loki steps away to give him space, and wait outside, but can’t help but catch this end of the conversation as Thor tries to briefly summarize the chaos of the last short while:  Odin, Hela, the loss of the warriors three, the destruction of Asgard. He does note one glaring omission that Sif might find relevant.

Finally, Thor emerges, casually rubbing at his good eye with the heel of his hand. “She’s on her way,” he says, clearly moved, but at least now hopeful rather than his feigned composure before.

“Meeting us on Earth?”

“No,” he smiles, as they start back towards the rest of the ship, “she asked for our position and heading. She’s on her way here, likely to put her boot in your ass. Don’t worry, I won’t let her maim you, nothing permanent. Your hair is forfeit, though, that’s only fair.” 

“To her or to you?”

He runs his hand along what’s left of his shorn mane. “Both.”

“We can match. What fun.”  They find the Valkyrie again, talking with Heimdall, with whom she seems to be familiar. That troublesome feeling is back, and he’s not sure what to do about it, just a desire to have it acknowledged. There’s a twinge of something in his stomach, a humourless little twitch at his mouth and he speaks again before he can think better of it. “All I ask is for a decent head start before you tell her we’ve lost Sigyn.”

His brother blinks at him, and exchanges a look with Heimdall. “Sigyn’s over there with Hildegund.”  He nods, casually, towards the edge of the hall, and Loki whips around so fast he needs to push his hair back out of his face.

Sure enough, there he finds her: sitting on the floor as best she can in a dress, legs tucked carefully beneath her, being assailed by Volstagg’s children. Loki knows them, if distantly. She’s got the smallest, Gudrun, a toddler, in her lap, and is pulling Volstagg’s oldest daughter, Gunnhild’s deep red hair into an elaborate plait, chatting with her softly as she works, pretending not to notice when the teenager rubs tears from her eyes. She’s offered up her own auburn tresses  as a distraction for the other two, a boy and girl a few years younger, Jargsa and Gunnar, who are red-eyed and pale, but focused now on making an absolute mess trying to replicate her work (and by the look of restrained suffering on her face, none too gently). He’s certain she hadn’t been there before, but Sigyn blends in so well with the family it’s hard to set her apart, like a cluster of trees in the last days of autumn.

“Norns,” the Valkyrie breathes, beside him, and he finds he’s not the only one staring. She looks haunted, and Loki knows what she’s seeing.  “What did your say her name was?”

“She is who you think she is,” Loki replies.

There’s a quiet, pensive look that comes across her face at the thought of her sisters-in-arms, and her hand drifts to the hilt of the Dragonfang at her side.  “Whatever happened to Runa?”

“As I said: gruesome deaths.”

Beside their exchange, Thor grins and calls to Sigyn, waving her over.  She looks up and smiles, carefully extricating herself from the children’s grasp and handing the little one back to Hildegund before making her way over. Loki takes a surreptitious step back as she approaches, while Thor steps forward, meeting her halfway.

“Your majesty,” she greets with a graceful, well-practiced inclination of her neck, just shy of a bow. Thor cringes.

“I’m not sure I’m ever going to get used to that.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to, your Majesty. Unless you prefer 'my lord All-Father’?”

“No. No, never again. That is so much worse.” They beam at each other, a moment of levity to help them pretend they’re not on the verge of collapse, before Thor quirks an eyebrow, and indicates the mess of uneven half-finished braids trailing through the waves of her unbound hair, playful, feigned hurt in his tone.  “I love what you’ve done with it. It seems you haven’t noticed anything different about me?”

“I mean. I **_noticed_** , just…” she gestures towards her face as he guides her back towards the group, “the eye was a little more pressing. I’m assuming there’s quite a story here,” she looks him up and down, head tilted thoughtfully as she takes in the hair, the eye, the strange clothing, “and I wasn’t really sure if I should be the one to bring it up. It suits you, if you like it. And if you don’t, then it will grow back, and it will still look quite handsome in the meantime.”  

“Is that not exactly what you said to Sif?”

“I didn’t use ‘handsome;’ that would not have helped, but the sentiment is the same.”  She tries to run a hand through her own unruly hair and it catches. “I may be joining you. I’m not sure there’ll be any salvaging this.”  

“Well, we’ll fit in beautifully in Midgard, then. Most of the men wear their hair short, and many women. If…” he scratches at his beard, Looks over her head to where the Hulk is still staring out into space. “Well, I was going to introduce you to a human, but that will have to wait. What I can do,” he stops before the Valkyrie and Heimdall, Loki slinking behind them, “is introduce you to someone I found— well, it’s a very long story, but Sigyn, this is the Valkyrie—" he trails off. She'd never actually given them a name, and Thor's not about to call her Scrapper One-four-two.

"Brunnhilde," she offers after a moment's hesitation, testing the long-forgotten feel of it on her tongue, "my name was Brunnhilde." She says it more to Sigyn than the rest of them, and from the look on her face, it means something to her. 

"Brunnhilde," Thor continues, beaming, "without whom I highly doubt I could have found my way back. Brunnhilde, this is Sigyn, lady-in-waiting to my late mother, Queen Frigga, and,” he looks back fondly towards Hildegund’s smaller children, "a dear friend since we were about their age.”   

The ásynjur study each other for a long moment, the Valkyrie still seeing ghosts, but Sigyn’s eyes are bright. “Lady Brunnhilde, it is such an honour to meet you; I never imagined I’d get the chance. My mother told me much— and dear Sif!” she exclaims, catching herself off guard by the thought. “You must meet Lady Sif. She’s been the only lady-warrior in Asgard since…” She falters when she notices Brunnhilde studying her. Sigyn is dressed simply, for working: a plain dress in her favoured sunny colour beneath a deep brown _hangerock_ , the missing shawl leaving her shoulders bare. She’s unarmed, unarmored, unscarred. “I… tried,” she admits, “but I could not follow in my mother’s path. Sif took up that honour. She’ll be thrilled to meet you.”    

“Warrior or no, Lady Sigyn certainly made her ancestors proud today,” Heimdall interjects with a stately nod of approval towards her. “She evacuated the palace faster than I could have hoped, kept our people calm and the little ones diverted while we hid at the fortress.” A wry smile lights his eyes, “and we still can’t keep this one from climbing things along the Rainbow Bridge.”

“I needed the height,” she ducks her head, sheepishly plucks at the laces of the leather bracer Loki only now notices at her left forearm, his stomach sinking. “All else I did was at our esteemed Gatekeeper's instruction. His praise is too generous.”

“Well, thank you both, then.”

He’s been slowly backing away from the group, hoping to evade notice until he can slip away altogether, but he’s been distracted, and notices too late that his brother has moved, the sound of his voice coming from behind. Thor pulls him aside. “Where are you off to?”

“I’ve had enough socializing for one day,” Loki replies, voice hushed.   

“You were always the one who was good at this kind of thing. Isn’t this what you did all day on Sakaar?”

“I also make an excellent projectile, that doesn’t mean I enjoy it.”

 “Come on, it’s only Sige,” he means it to be reassuring. “It’s not like stuffy diplomatic business, this is just talking with a friend.”  

“ ** _That’s exactly_** —“ before he can finish the thought, Thor seizes him by shoulder and pushes him forward, in part, Loki suspects, to prove he’s corporeal. Loki mutters frantic protests under his breath, but it’s too late.

“Look who else decided to join us!”  Thor announced proudly as he steers him into the circle. How desperately he wishes his brother would stop pointing him out to creatures he’d rather avoid.  That same panic is creeping up in him now.

Their eyes meet, and in that instant, Loki watches the light leave them. It’s like standing near a hearth fire but feeling no warmth— impossible, cold, fundamentally wrong by its very nature. He doesn’t know what he was expecting. “Your highness,” she says, directed somewhere in the general vicinity of his boots as she suddenly feels the need to fuss at her hair again. “It’s good to see you well. If… you’ll excuse me, I should really be getting back to—”

“No. No, don’t bother,” he retorts, voice clipped, a match for her own detached civility. It comes out bitter. “I was just leaving.” His brother tries to stop him as he spins on his heel, but he ignores Thor’s objections, and stalks away through the crowd without another word.  

 

* * *

 

 

980 AD: Asgard, Waterfront

 

It’s dusk when they make their way down to the water with their mother, their father already waiting. It’s not the first such service he’s attended, but it is the largest, and the first the All-father has presided over, personally. Ten or so little boats bob in the shallow water, and dozens of mourners, villagers and armored Einherjar alike, gather along the cove’s pebbled beach.

Their father approaches them, and after a somber greeting, starts with a reminder of what’s expected. and their obligations, and Loki is only half-listening. He’s fixated instead on the crowd, and only finds Sigyn by finding Volstagg. She looks so small beside him. She’s pale, her stare distant. She looks fragile, and lost. Sif is next to her, their hands intertwined.

His father’s hand cups his chin, gently redirects his gaze back towards him.  “Loki, are you listening to me?”

“Of course, Father.”

“What did I last say?”

He heard it, he understands it, but he doesn’t like it. Loki sighs, resigned, and reluctantly repeats the instruction: “I’m here as their prince, not as her friend.”

With an approving nod, Odin lets them go, making his way back to his place at the center of the gathering.  Their mother strides across the beach, gracefully acknowledging esteemed warriors and families of the fallen as she passes, and stops before one of the pyre ships.

“I’m going to say my farewells,” she tells them. “There’s no shame in waiting here.” The princes exchange a resolute look, and as one, continue along. With the nine realms in its charge, Asgard is involved in endless conflicts, and funerals for fallen warriors aren’t uncommon. They’ve seen dead bodies before— but never someone they knew.

Lady Sigrun has been laid out in her finest armor, red and yellow gold, polished mirror-bright, the helm formed subtly like wings that reach around to cradle her head. It’s only upon closer inspection that it becomes clear how broken the body is, beneath. The few glimpses of once porcelain skin the armor shows are ashen, mottled with dark bruises and marred by lacerations, her fingers, curled around the hilt of a sword, rest at unnatural angles, and there’s something he can’t define, something just **_not right_** about the way the armor sits, that sends an uneasy chill down his spine.

Loki can only begin to imagine the force it would have taken to do this to an adult Asgardian.

He’d known it was going to be bad when they heard the story: Sigrun stumbling across a group of Rock Trolls recruited by the insurgents, lying in wait to ambush Vanir supply routes. She’d held them off singlehandedly for over an hour, but by the time reinforcements found her she was too far gone to save.

Loki would like to imagine that Sigyn has spared herself this, but he can’t; her presence here is unmistakable. The hawk feather is braided into her mother’s hair. The wild fiery-red curls spilling from the helm fall in a more deliberate rendition of her usual untidy chaos, little braids, with beads and the few tiny spring flowers she had available, winding their way through— the kind Sigyn likes to put in Sif’s hair in idle moments, or even Thor’s when he’ll sit still long enough.

The grave goods too bear her signature, carefully arranged around the little boat. The expected things are all there: her favoured spear and shield, trophies from monsters she’s slain across the nine realms, her hunting bow and a quiver full of mismatched arrows, a bundle of enormous white feathers, tied with silver ribbon. But there are smaller, more personal treasures tucked among them, valuable only in sentiment: a familiar water skein and bedroll, a well-used hunting knife and another, virtually untouched, that he knows had once belonged to Sigrun's brother.

( _“Do you know what that makes it?” she’d asked when she showed it to him, taking it from its home above the fireplace, with all the reverence of a holy relic. He recognized the impish tone, thoughtfully replied that no, he does not, and waited. She beamed, barely able to contain her excitement. “A **Dag** -ger!”)_

He recognizes the small wooden figures that now sit beside the body, also once given honoured places on the mantle. They’re gifts that Sigyn's father had carved for her mother while they were courting: a wolf, howling, a raptor with wings spread and talons ready. There’s a third between them, its shape indistinct and rough-hewn: smaller, delicate, vaguely canine. He hadn’t gotten the chance to finish it. 

The last thing that catches his eye, as he looks anywhere but the brutalized remains, are the dried flowers strewn about her, Sigyn’s beloved sunflowers most prominent. It’s early yet, their garden only just begun to show signs of life, but Sigyn likes to press them and keep them, and this must be all she’s collected. They’d pressed some together, years ago, that he’d brought home to his mother. She’d been so excited to show him how, and they’d wandered, through fields and mountain trails, and finally through her own garden, hunting for the most perfect and most interesting specimens to squirrel away in her cellar… weighted down by all those very heavy books he’d spirited from the palace.

Loki takes in a deep, shuddering breath, and rests his face in his hand, tries to disguise the noise he’d made involuntarily as a sigh. This is a very, very bad place to start chuckling to himself, and he doesn’t mean to. He still feels as though he might be ill, and his stomach turns at the thought of breaking into nervous laughter, here. Somehow that makes it even harder not to.  

“Oh Runa,” their mother sighs, shaking her head as she takes in the sight, “now you’ve done it.” They’d always seemed friendly, Sigrun almost audaciously informal with the All-Mother. The Queen regards her unflinching, not the stares of quiet horror he and his brother are wearing, and reaches down to brush away a stray curl, fallen across her face. She leans over and surreptitiously adjust her arm ever-so slightly, just enough to show the tattoo through the fasteners of her vambraces, and the thin line of white scar tissue that runs through it. “There we are.”

Beside him, Thor’s hands clench into fists at his side as he stares at the body— a friend’s mother, a favourite teacher, a guardian on all the best childhood outings, the ones that had brought his friends together. He glances over his shoulder towards where they stand in the crowd. “The creatures that did this are dead?”     

“Yes,” his mother assures him, resting a hand on each of her sons’ shoulders.

“Good,” Thor replies with a quick, short nod, his jaw straining. Static prickles at the back of Loki’s neck. “Good.” 

The hand at his shoulder gives it a squeeze, and she gives them each a subtle smile. “Go on,” she says, “go see your friends. Pass along our sympathies, and try not to overwhelm her. I’ll be doing the same with the other families, come and join me when you’re done.”

The princes join their companions, and they exchanges somber greetings.  Sigyn tries to smile when they approach, and thanks them when they share their mother’s condolences, but she seems dazed, far away, and the more he studies them, the more it seems like Sif’s grasp on her hand is less like comfort and more like she’s afraid the other girl will wander away if she isn’t tethered. Sif, for her part, is resolute, her posture straight, her jaw set and every inch the Asgardian warrior, desperately hoping no one notices the way her breath trembles, or the sheen to her eyes. Fandral’s to her other side, and when they glance to one another, it’s a commiserating look of awkward misery, and uncertainty. Volstagg looks torn, visibly mulling something over, and it’s something they’re all wondering but not willing to voice. He’s a single, young warrior, who rents a single bedroom flat, not in any position to take her in himself, though he’s clearly considering it anyway.

Volstagg’s massive hand envelops Sigyn’s shoulder.  “If it weren’t for your mother, there would have been more ships,” he says finally, after a long silence.  

 “A warrior’s death, worthy of her. She takes her rightful place in Valhalla.,” she murmurs. It’s what she’s meant to say, what’s proper, but Sigyn’s heart always shows in her eyes, and they’re vacant. She recites quietly, nearly under her breath. “Nor shall we mourn, but rejoice…“ They all know the words, and pick it up together, a chorus of low voices. They’ll hear the prayer in it’s entirety before the ceremony is through.      

“I’m proud to be her daughter,” it’s the first thing she’s said that she isn’t out of obligation, something stirs in her voice, and ever-so-gently she nudges Sif with her shoulder. “She was very proud of you.” Sif hushes her, her stoic expression faltering for a moment, but she quickly reigns it back in.

Farther along the beach, their mother is glancing back at them, and then to their father, and they have to excuse themselves. They spend what’s left of the daylight following their mother as she visits the mourners, offers her sympathies and gratitude. Thor’s polite with them, but antsy, glancing back towards their companions, often. Loki watches his mother at work, awed as he always is at her grace, how effortlessly she sets people at ease. He looks back himself, when the opportunity arises naturally, but each time there’s no change.

Night falls, torches are lit, and the All-Father calls for the gathering’s attention. As they settle into the crowd by the Queen’s side, he’s careful to place himself such that he can keep an eye on Sigyn.   

His father begins to speak, a wave of Gungnir sends the little boats free of the shore, drifting into the bay, and members of the Einherjar ready their bows, nock their blazing arrows. Loki watches her, as they draw, and loose. Sigyn’s fingers twitch at her sides, like a musician as someone else plays.  

* * * * * * * * *

 

It’s not long after returning home that Loki announces he isn’t feeling well, and bids his parents and brother an early goodnight.  He shuts himself inside his chambers, and stops halfway to the balcony. No, no, not yet.  He lets out a frustrated breath, working at the joints of one hand with the other as he thinks, paces the generous length of the room, takes a seat on his bed, then stands again, overcome with restless energy, the need to do something. He can’t be in two places at once, not yet.

A gentle knock at the door startles him, his mother’s voice comes drifting through, asking to enter. “Of course,” he replies, frantically kicking off his boots and throwing his coat hastily over the back of an armchair, and hurling himself, otherwise fully clothed, into bed. “Come in.”

Frigga’s graceful strides carry her easily across the room, to sit beside him at the edge of his bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Awful,” he tells her, nestling miserably into his pillows. It’s not really a lie. All he has to do is think too hard about anything after reaching the rainbow bridge that afternoon, and his stomach lurches. Sigyn’s desperate panic, Sigrun’s mangled body, how clearly he can picture his friend carefully, lovingly, weaving flowers into her lifeless mother’s hair… It isn’t an act when he shudders.  
  
His mother’s face is soft with concern, and before he can squirm away, she gently lays a hand against his forehead, slips it down to his cheek. “You do feel warm,” she agrees, which completely baffles him but he’s not about to complain.

“I mean,” Loki adds hastily, “not so awfully that I wouldn’t attend, were it allowed…”

Frigga sighs, studies him for a moment, his face still resting in her hand. “They’re meeting in the tavern by the canal. That’s no fitting place for a young prince, not either of you.”  He’s about to protest, insist that Sigyn and Sif are both underage as well, really shouldn’t he and Thor be there to help protect their grieving friends— but he stops, notices the sly tug at the corner of her mouth.  “Get some rest,” she tells him, with a knowing smile.  “I’ll see to it that you’re not disturbed. I’ll come check on you in a few hours.”

He sits up when the turns to leave, and she pauses at the sound. He shouldn’t needle at this. He shouldn’t but he can’t help himself, and the words come out as if of their own volition. “That’s why he went, isn’t it?” She turns back to him, brows knit together. “When he woke us up to say goodbye, he already **_knew_** —“

His mother sits back down.  “We both decided,” she corrects. “Obviously things didn’t transpire as we had intended. Volstagg was meant to tell her, privately, once he returned. Until then, we saw no sense in burdening her with it, or you.” Frigga gives him a remorseful smile, smooths down his hair. “We hoped to let you enjoy one last happy day together.”

 “It wasn’t,” he admits miserably, resting his head against his mother’s shoulder, his voice thick in his throat. “I ruined it. I….” his eyebrows dip. “One last— you say it as though I’ll never see her again.” She hushes him.  “What’s going to become of her? She has no one else.”   

“Runa would have made arrangements for her.” They sit together in silence for a long moment; his mother strokes his hair like when he was a child. He feels like one: helpless, small, his heart aching at the thoughts of loss this day has inevitably put in his head.  He turns to her, eyes stinging, and tries to speak, but his voice falters. His mother only smiles as she stands again, presses a kiss to his forehead. “I love you, too.”

It takes him a moment to will the lump from his throat after she closes the door behind her, crawls out of bed. A look in the mirror finds him gaunt and red-eyed, and he spares a quick moment to splash some cold water in his face and straighten out his tousled hair before throwing on his coat, pulling on his boots, and making for the balcony.

 He makes a beeline for the balustrade, throwing a leg over the railing and—

 “Loki!” He stops, furrows his brow, and turns to investigate the sound before it comes again, a kind of loud stage-whisper. “Loki, over here!” Now that he’s expecting it he turns to find his brother on his own balcony of the next room down the hall, a considerable distance away. He gestures towards himself, more insistently when Loki doesn’t move. “What are you doing?”

 Loki looks from him, down to himself, straddling the balustrade, then back to Thor.

“Come over here,” his brother insists. “I have a plan. We’re sneaking out.”  
  
“Say that a little louder; I don’t think all the Einherjar heard you.”  He rolls his eyes when Thor persists, and lets out a low breath as he relaxes, taps into some deep-rooted instinct and lets his shape become fluid. In an instant, he’s changed, taking the form that comes most easily to him, and slithers to the other balcony across the windowsills and masonry between, pooling in coils and standing again as himself.  “Alright, fine. Your plan, what is it?”

“We’re going to go to the _sjaund_ , obviously.”

“That isn’t a plan, it’s a goal.”

“I’m still working out the details, but the important thing is that we should be there. Honestly, I bet I’ve been only disallowed out of fairness to you; I’m old enough—” He isn’t, not for a few years yet. Thor frowns as he looks his brother over, dressed for the night air, and looks hurt when he realizes. “Did… did you mean to go without me?” 

Loki sighs, rests his head in his hand by the bridge of his nose. “We can hardly just walk through town in the middle of the night, into a tavern, from which we have been **_explicitly forbidden_** , without it getting back to Father. I can look like anyone, hiding you is harder.”

“You can’t just use some of that magic you were so keen on earlier?” his brother retorts, still a bit sorely, but then pulls the hood of the dark cloak he’s donned over his head. “Here, perfect.”

“Thor, that does nothing— fine, fine. Lets just go, we don’t have time for this. I’ll do my best. This way,” he climbs the railing, shuffles over to the best place to drop from, and Thor follows behind as Loki leads the way across other balconies, rooftops and along the edges of walls to finally reach street level with the least chance of being spotted. He can consider this route well and truly compromised, but he has others.

Thor eyes at him suspiciously when they finally make it to the cobblestones. “How often do you do this?” Loki ignores him and presses on. Down the street, Loki stops suddenly, and hauls Thor into an alleyway as a couple of off-duty guards come around a corner. With a flash of green light, he takes on the shape of one of the younger stable hands. “No sudden movements,” he instructs as he passes his magic over his brother’s form. “Try and move predictably.”

Thor actually seems impressed as he takes in the web of magic cast over him, tests the strange hands he sees when he looks down, and with a grin that’s familiar even in a different face, nudges his brother appreciatively. The illusion warps and frays at the edges when he does, and Loki, caught in intense concentration, urges him to hurry. They strike out casually, making it past the guards without incident, and Loki drops the illusion so that he can think again.

“Alright,” his brother begins, “there are a few places it could—”

“It’s the one by the canal.”

“How—“

“Mother told me.”

 “Oh,” replies Thor, nonplussed. “Well why didn’t you just say so?”   

He has to hide Thor a few times as they make their way to the city, each time the illusion holds a little better, but leaves him more fatigued, and there’s a persistent buzzing in his skull by the time they reach the right place.

There are fine inns and taverns higher in the city, but this is a more common establishment with a rougher reputation. The dingy alehouse is packed, tables and bar crowded with warriors, regaling each other with war stories, drinking and picking at the plates of food provided. 

Volstagg sits at one such table, his sturdy form crammed into a small corner, clearly a few pints in, talking with Hildegund, the ásynja he’s courting.  Fandral sits at the same table, picking half-heartedly at a tray of fruit and taking small sips from a tankard.  It’s not quite raucous yet, but that’s the clear direction of the evening.

“Volstagg! Volstagg, it’s us!” Thor whispers, to explain his impenetrable disguise of having his hood pulled up. His brother bobs his head towards him, still in the guise of the stable hand. “Here, this is Loki.”

Fandral shifts over in the bench to make room for them, flags down a serving girl for more drinks, and had anyone need of another sign that this were a terrible day, he doesn’t even attempt to charm her.

Loki slides into the bench after Thor, and doesn’t waste any time getting to the heart of the matter. “Where are Sif and Sigyn?”

“Ah,” Volstagg nods, Hildegund offering a kindly pat on the shoulder as he sniffs, then takes another long draught. “The poor little thing drank too much of the _sjaund,_ too quickly.”

“Sif’s taken her home,” Fandral explains, as two more tankards of dark, bitter ale are set down before them.     

They don’t stay as long as Thor would have liked, but enough that the next toast to the fallen is attended by a boy from the palace stables and a lunatic who won’t pull his hood down indoors.          

“It’s alright,” Thor assures him as they make their way back towards Valaskjálf, an arm over his shoulder and maybe just a tiny waver in his step. “Sif has her.” An involuntary little smile pulls at his mouth, for a moment, at the familiar choice of words.

“And I’ve got you,” he responds, taking a bit more of his tipsy brother’s weight. 

 

* * * * * * * * *

“You **_lost_** her?”                                                                                                                                                                                            

Sif narrows her eyes at Loki’s allegation, takes a sharp breath. “She isn’t lost, she **_left_**. She was gone when I awoke this morning. What am I meant to do? Imprison her in my cellar?”

“Sif, you had **_one job_** —”

Around their favoured meeting place, Thor and Fandral are resting bleary eyes, the blonds seated on the steps with their heads in their hands as the dark-haired pair quarrel. Their redheads are absent. No one had expected Sigyn to turn up today, and they’d all taken a day from their classwork, but he had at least expected Sif to know where she **_was_**.

“She could be off in the woods somewhere,” Thor offers. “We could go search for her.”

“We’d never find her,” Fandral groans beside him, shielding his eyes from the bright afternoon sun. “She could stay out there for weeks if she had a mind to. Or… You know, indefinitely.”

“Look,” Sif snaps, loud enough to make the other two boys jump. The girl takes a deep breath to compose herself, her mouth drawn into a thin line as she makes for the rack of weaponry. She continues, tersely, in a tone that brooks no argument. “She’ll come back to us when she’s ready.”

She doesn’t. Not the next day, not the day after. He waits in their usual places to no avail, more than once wanders to the little cottage at the edge of town. Pebble barriers and bare shrubs mark the place where their garden will soon erupt into a wild tangle of flowers and vines, cared for, but never shaped or tamed outside of the little vegetable garden around back. The fields behind, now bare, will be full of towering sunflowers come summer. The cottage is empty. The sheltered pile of firewood never diminishes between visits, and when he peers through the windows he sees no signs of life: just gathering dust, and an empty bookshelf in her bedroom. 

More than once, he tries to find her with magic, but his attempts are clumsy and the fire yields nothing. His mother catches him over her brazier, and gently insists that he stop. 

It’s a week before Fandral and Sif report that she was there in the classroom that morning, in body, at least. Her mind was elsewhere, and she’d hurried away when they’d asked her to join them. 

“Well that’s something, at least,” Thor says hopefully. “Did you get any sense of when she might come back to training?”

Sif and Fandral exchange a look that immediately sets Loki on edge. “That’s just it, ah…” Fandral sighs, searches for a moment, with an uncomfortable grimace.  “Sige’s not coming back.” 

Thor’s brows furrow, but his optimism doesn’t fade. “It’s still so early, of course she’ll need a while—”

Fandral winces in sympathy, looking between them and especially to Sif’s tense expression, with and a kind of reluctant understanding. “She was… adamant.”

Loki observes the exchange but doesn’t contribute, one hand anxiously working at the knuckles of the other, as Sif stalks over to him by the training weaponry, her jaw tight. “She wants nothing more to do with any of this. Congratulations,” she snaps, “you were right.”

Loki doesn’t respond, just steps around her and keeps going right up the stairs.  He’s vaguely aware of Thor calling to him, but he doesn’t stop. Soon he’s cleared the courtyard, then the palace grounds to the street, then past the marketplace and down the central road that cuts through the city.

It’s a long way to the Observatory. Normally this trip is made on horseback, but he doesn’t’ feel like explaining himself to the stable hands, and he’s not opposed to long walks. It’s time alone with his thoughts, which aren’t exactly pleasant company today, but it’s time to run scenarios and plan how best to approach the situation, whatever answer he gets. 

The Rainbow Bridge’s construction grows simpler as he draws farther from the city, eventually nothing more than an iridescent walkway suspended between the occasional support pillars. He’s used the Bifrost, but he’s never been here alone, not without his parents and brother and a full retinue and guard, bound for visits with the royal families of the Vanir or the Ljósálfar. He stops as he nears the brassy dome at the bridge’s end, takes a few curious steps closer to the side, risks another, and once a few scant feet from the edge, peers over.

Far, far below the rainbow bridge, white foam churns on the water as it cascades over the rocky edge and disperses into the thick mist that drifts up from below, rainbow colours cast by sunlight through the spray, and past it, nothing but blackness and the distant light of stars.

“Careful,” cautions a deep voice from behind him, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. “If you fall, there’s no saving you.” He finds Heimdall by the doorway to the outpost, imposing in his heavy golden armor, but his expression might be called pleasant, were it not for the unnerving, brilliant citrine eyes that somehow seemed to be looking into rather than at him. 

“It’s a long way down,” Loki agrees, trying to force his heart back down from his throat, straightens casually. 

“Were the Bifrost open, it would scatter you across all creation. Or, so the theory goes.” Loki doesn’t respond to that, but he does step away from the side. The gatekeeper smiles, faintly, bows his head in formal acknowledgement. “Did his Highness come down here to stargaze? Or is there perhaps some way I might be of service?”

Loki takes a deep breath, and pulls himself taught, lifting his chin, straightening his back. “Sir Gatekeeper, it is said that you see everything that transpires across the Nine Realms.”

“And beyond them,” the gatekeeper adds, but motions for him to continue.

“Sigyn Helgadóttir. You must know where she is.”  
  
Heimdall nods, slowly, with a look of patronizing sympathy that makes Loki bristle. “You cannot find your friend, because your friend does not wish to be found. My power is for the protection of Asgard from its enemies, and any secrets I come across in that duty are not mine to reveal— but know that your friend is safe, she is fed and sheltered. Her mother saw to that.” 

“What does that **_mean?_** That’s all anyone will tell me,” Loki hears the frustration rising in his voice and bites it back, tries to maintain the noble bearing his parents have shown him.

“I mean work, your Highness,” Heimdall answers. He’s deliberately ambiguous as he reassures the prince that Sigyn will be allowed to continue attending classes, but will otherwise be expected to serve the household that’s taken her on. 

Loki’s brows furrow as he thinks.  Deep down, a part of him had been hoping that some terrible obstacle was preventing her from seeking him out, one that could be removed. Why would she not want to see him? He’d come down here determined to find her, with or without Heimdall’s assistance, but perhaps he should leave her be, as he keeps being advised.  He dismisses all of that with a shake of his head, and looks back up at the Gatekeeper. “Is it at least somewhere agreeable?” Loki asks finally, his composure tainted by a troubled expression.  “Are they good to her?”

“Go home, your Highness,” Heimdall turns to look back towards the distant city, eyes unfocused as he takes in everything at once, and he gets the distinct impression that he means to signal the end of this conversation.  “It’s a fair walk back to the palace, and if you leave now, you’ll be back in time for supper.”

The sky is only just beginning to dim when he reaches home, trudging through the palace grounds and making for the royal solar. Despite Heimdall’s warnings, he’s well ahead of the evening meal, so the Great Hall is relatively empty as he passes by, not yet teeming with nobles and warriors, but he does hear voices from within.  
  
“—speak only when spoken to, do I make myself clear?”  Ugh, Fimafeng. He’s not even particularly high up in the hierarchy of household help, but Loki can often observe him ordering the others around as though he were; but, unpleasant and uppity are an unparalleled combination when choosing a target for mischief, so Loki supposes he does have his uses. “I don’t care how funny you think you are. Any trouble and it’s back to the scullery. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, sir,” answers the soft, broken little voice, and Loki stops dead in his tracks. “I understand.”

When he peeks into the chamber, Sigyn follows behind Fimafeng, carefully cradling a pitcher of water as he shows her where to stand, how to serve. She’s dressed head to toe in the servants’ dull colours: a brown dress with a lighter brown _hangerock_ — like a little female songbird, drab and invisible.  She looks pale, and fatigued, but tries to be attentive to his direction, even as the pitcher nearly slips from her fingers when she stifles a yawn.

She steadies the vessel to rub at her weary eyes with the heel of her palm as Fimafeng drones on about proper table setting, and as she blinks them open again, her gaze falls across the doorway. Sigyn freezes at the sight of him, her eyes wide for an instant.  She ducks her head, mutters some hasty excuse to an annoyed Fimafeng, and scurries away.

Loki can do little more than watch her go, rooted to the spot, his heart sinking.

 

* * * * * * * *  

She’s not allowed anywhere near the high table, so it’s hard to get her attention.

That night as the Great Hall fills with the bustle of their court, he keeps his eyes on the servers, and traces the route the older girl she’s shadowing takes around the hall. The closest she gets is a few tables away, but finally, finally he manages to catch her eye. 

He knows he should probably point her out to Thor, but not yet. She still seems mortified that he’s found her, and he tells himself to wait until she’s looking a bit less fragile.  

Sigyn’s eyes dart away when she notices him watching, but he waits until she inevitably glances back in his direction again, and holds a secretive finger to his lips. Shh. Her brows dip, but Loki just smiles, and gently nudges the saucer of gravy on the table between himself and Thor a little closer to his brother.

Thor’s hair is getting long, again, and though the top is pulled back from his face, he wears it loose around his shoulders. Every time he ducks his head towards his plate, he dunks a particular long lock of his hair into the gravy.

Sigyn’s watching out of the corner of her eye, and suddenly she twitches, surprising herself as she suddenly raises a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“Oh what— augh!” Thor recoils as he realizes what’s happened, grimacing and holding the slimy tendril away from him. From the seat beside him, he catches a sidelong glance from their mother, but she doesn’t say anything as he excuses himself from the table, offering to grab some water to clean it up, and obviously it’s quicker to just do it himself, than wait for it to be brought. Thor’s more than a little suspicious, but thanks him.

The serving girl reflexively grabs the pitcher from Sigyn’s hands, as though handing him something required a certain amount of expertise, but he thanks her for it, taking it with one hand. As he does, the other he slips behind his back, towards Sigyn, and with a tiny flex of his magic, the book they’d been sharing appears in it. He waves it insistently until he feels its weight leave his hands, and then hastens back to the high table. Thor wets a cloth napkin and starts scrubbing at the now-drying gravy strands.    

The older ásynja points Sigyn back towards the kitchen, presumably for a fresh pitcher, and she hastens towards the back of the room to the kitchens. Loki catches her stopping there, just outside of the hall and even with the high table out of sight of most, and she pulls the book from her apron pocket to find the note he’s left tucked inside.

 

_My dearest Sigyn,_

_While I understand that this constitutes a profound breach of our agreement, I hope you’ll forgive me for reading ahead without you. Under the circumstances, I wanted to ensure that this story had a happy ending before I returned it to you. Despite the seemingly impossible situation our protagonists found themselves facing where last you left off, I will attest that the conclusion is as satisfying as it is implausibly fortuitous._

_I feel as though you could use it._

_Yours, truly,_

_Loki_

 

She turns to look at him, eyes wide, book hugged tight to her chest, note still caught in her fingers. Loki smiles at her, waves, a playful twiddle of his fingers. And slowly, hesitantly, she replies with a tiny, shy wave of her own, an acknowledgement.

He taps his brother on the shoulder to get his attention, a preemptive hand placed there, because when Thor sees what he’s indicating his instinct is to spring immediately to his feet and Loki’s ready to keep him from overturning his chair and barreling over to her. “Easy.”  His brother is shocked, but the baffled stare becomes a crooked grin, and he waves to her, a more animated gesture. He sees her shoulders shake as she stifles another laugh, but in that same hesitant way, she waves back.   
  
Sigyn tucks the note back into the book, the book back into her apron pocket, and sets off towards the kitchen.  It’s still pained, but before she disappears down the hallway, he sees the beginnings of a smile. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT (19/4/2019): This chapter and the next were previously one chapter, split into two to try and make editing (and reading) less daunting. 
> 
> Hey, remember when I said I was almost done 2? This got WAY LONGER than I thought it was going to oh my god. A huge thank you to anyone who's read all that, I sincerely hope you're enjoying it!
> 
> A few things: I've set the fic's rating to Teen, I was kind of caught between that or mature, for language, violence, and implied things, but nothing's ever going to get explicit (I say, after spending way to long describing a corpse). I would say I'm trying to stay within the realm of MCU-plausible levels of things, except I enjoy the word "fuck" too much. StarLord does keep flipping people the bird, though, so. 
> 
> Secondly, I wanted to mention this last time, but it became relevant here, so. In terms of stuff that has virtually no comic book/mythological basis. Apparently Sif is probably an agricultural deity and marvel made her the goddess of war, so I'm jsut going to make the executive decision that Sigyn can be outdoorsy. 
> 
> I'm fighting with the chapter notes, so if anything shows up twice, please bear with me, and thank you again!


	3. The Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This used to be the second half of chapter 2. I initially had this story divided up into a few, really long chapters, but I'm reformatting it to be more, shorter ones for ease of reading and to facilitate editing. Thank you for your patience! I'll upload chapter 4 in just a second, I didn't want to go ahead and submit material you've already read without giving you some new content too.

 

2018 AD: Somewhere in Space, the _Statesman_

 

Thor watches his brother storm away, and then returns his attention to the rest of the gathering, awkwardly scratching at his beard by his jaw. “I think, perhaps, the stress of the day has gotten to him.” He’s surprised to find Sigyn still tense, arms folded and hugging herself close, gaze still trained downwards. “Perhaps it’s gotten to all of us.” He offers her a cheerful smile, watches the stress drain from her expression when he tells her that Sif will be meeting them en route. “She was eager to see you… and probably to pummel my brother, but mostly the first thing”

 “And she’ll be looking forward to seeing you, of course,” Sigyn begins, her smile returning, though there's something sly in it.  “I’ll include her in the counts, then. I just need to find something to write with.”

Thor shakes his head, “Rest now, Sigyn, don’t trouble yourself with all that.” Behind her, the crowd shifts, and Thor‘s grin widens as a massive shape presses through. Sigyn doesn’t seem to notice. He exchanges a sidelong, conspiring glance with the Valkyrie.    

“Oh, no, please,” Sigyn continues, “Work is good. I would desperately like to be busy at the moment, because when I run out of things to do, I’m afraid I’ll lose my—” Sigyn freezes, the heavy breathing behind her stirs her hair like a breeze. Thor and Brunnhilde chuckle at Sigyn’s look of startled confusion, which is hilarious until the Hulk decides to pick her up, and she lets out a loud squeak.   

“Ok, set her down. You can’t just pick people up without asking!” Thor chides, but the behemoth is ignoring him. He’s got Sigyn in one hand, and is studying her intently with an uncertain scowl, delicately grabs at one of the braids between his immense thumb and forefinger and inspects it. Oh. “Not Natasha! There are other redheads!” he calls up, and that seems to register, the Hulk finally moving on from the copper of her hair to her face to see, in either relief or disappointment, Thor isn’t sure, that no, this is not Natasha Romanoff. “I’m sorry, Sige, he thought you were someone else. This is Hulk, Hulk, this is my friend, Sigyn,” and then more slowly and loudly, repeats, “ ** _friend._** ”  

“SGUN. SEEGN, GNN.… ” The Hulk repeats the name back, the furrows in his brow deepening at the unfamiliar syllables. “SEEG?” 

“Yes, yes, that’s fine. Hello,” she says, brightly if a bit flustered, reassured by Thor’s approval of him. The Hulk shifts, so that she’s sitting in his palm more than in his grasp.  “I remember you from the bridge; thank you.”  

 He smiles, a toothy grin splitting his massive face.  “HULK FRIENDS,” he states, pointing to Thor and Valkyrie in turn. “THOR. ANGRY-GIRL.”

 “Are… are you introducing me to your friends? How thoughtful.” He can see from Sigyn’s softening expression that she’s realized the Hulk is essentially a gigantic toddler, and she plays along, greets them both as if for the first time.

 The hulk snorts out a chuckle, and he smirks. “PUNY-GOD.”  Thor’s brow furrows. Isn’t that his name for…?  He turns to find motion in the crowd behind him, a smaller ripple than the Hulk had made, but his brother had turned and come back towards them, his posture and tousled hair implying great haste before he’d stopped abruptly. His daggers are drawn, and good ones.

 Thor watches as his brother’s eyes pass over the scene, sees Hulk, and Sigyn, still in his grasp, but laughing, and pivots again towards the hallway.  Loki  tenses when he catches up and falls into step. “Never thought I’d see you run **_towards_** the Hulk.” Loki’s eyes flicker in his direction and he walks a little faster. “Sigyn screamed. You thought he was going to hurt her.”

“Alright, I clearly misjudged your colossal monster-friend.  Is that what you want?”

 Thor’s eyes narrow but a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth— a happy suspicion. “You’ve been looking for her. Is that what’s had you so… squirrely?” Thor overtakes his brother’s pace, walking backwards in front of him as they continue down the hallway towards the hangar, and Loki stops.   

 “Yes, well. She was important to Mother.”  

He leans in closer, studies his brother’s eyes. Loki’s a prodigious liar, but this has him rattled, and they dart away nervously. He wrings his hands. “I don’t believe you.”

 “Alright, look,” he crosses his arms, trapped, fingers drumming against the leather of his vambraces, “I didn’t see her on the bridge, I wasn’t seeing her here, so I assumed she was lost to us. Mother always found her helpful, and Sigyn’s been of great assistance to me while I was… Running things,” he clears his throat, looks anywhere but Thor. “She’d be good for managing things on the ship, and dealing with the mortals when we get to Midgard. She’s just… useful. Like Heimdall, or Eir.”     

That, at least, rings true.  “Loki, if Sigyn were missing do you not think I would have missed her? You should have said something, she was just with the healers—“

Loki cuts him off suddenly, blurts, “Why was she with the healers? Was she hurt?” and in his eyes, genuine concern.

Thor just stares at him as he realizes what he’s done, a massive smile growing across his face, gasps in absolute delight, the expression only growing as Loki stammers objections

“No— No, Thor stop— stop that— stop making that face at me—”

“’Useful’ my empty eye socket! You **_fancy_** her!”

“Oh grow up,” Loki hisses, disgusted. “How old are you?”

 “Something like fifteen hundred? And fine then,” Thor’s grin only spreads, rivaling the expression he’d been sporting when the Hulk had first crashed into the Sakaarian arena, “you have **_feelings_** for her.”

 “Of course I do, they’re the same feelings I have for everyone: indifference and contempt.”

“ **That** ,” Thor raises his eyebrows, indicating the visible sliver of the dagger his brother still has concealed in his hand, “does not look like indifference.” Loki glowers at him, waving the knife away with a glimmer of green light, though it’s too late. “Loki, if being your brother has taught me anything, it’s that sometimes love looks a lot like knives.”   

Loki blinks at him.  “Congratulations, that’s the single stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say, and you were just wrong about your own age.” His brother glares at him, but there’s something vulnerable beneath the indignation. It’s something he’s come to notice a lot, now that he knows to look for it. A few moments of silence, the tension one sided, pass between them and Thor’s smile doesn’t waiver, because Thor is delighted and his brother’s ardent denials are somehow only making the truth of the situation more plain. 

“Look,” Loki sighs finally, pinching the bridge of his nose and resting his forehead there against his fist, “there’s… there’s a massive gulf between… what **_you’re_** suggesting… and not wanting to see her dead, or maimed by an enormous green beast—” 

“Not for you, there isn’t. That gulf is your disinterest, and we’ve established that she’s on the other side of it. And—” Thor adds, with a chastising wag of his finger, his tone a playful warning, “You’ve battled side by side; Hulk is your friend, too, now.”  He waits for the inevitable witty retort, but it doesn’t come.  “So, is this a recent development, then?”

Loki still doesn’t answer, just turns away and slumps against the nearest wall.

“How long…?” There’s the soft thump of Loki’s forehead against the metal of the ship’s interior, and Thor can suddenly recall so clearly those few years where she’d trained with them, and that first short while in Valaskajálf, before Sigyn had lost interest in adventuring, and they had seemingly lost interest in one another. He’s reminded of so many things that hadn’t seemed like much at the time:  how his brother had worried over her, how they were always curled up together with a book or at some game, how reluctantly he shared her attention with Sif, how often and easily he had laughed, back then. He doesn’t think it’s possible for his smile to grow any wider. One the one hand, good natured humiliation of his (immensely hypocritical) little brother is a joy he feels he’s earned after having to bury the little shit twice, now, but it’s the recollection of a much more recent conversation that makes this so satisfying. “I can’t believe it. All of your condemnation of **_sentiment_** , while all the while—” 

“Please shut up,” he hears his brother lament, voice muffled by his current position, face-first against the wall, long fingers now interlocked behind his head.

“—Sigyn Helgadóttir? **_Our_** Sigyn?”

“Shut **_up_** —”

“The kindest, the gentlest, the most **_sentimental_** —”

“ ** _Yes_** Thor,” he snaps, voice strained, “ ** _please_** , by all means, continue listing all the reasons she’s too good for me. It’s helping **_immensely_** , thank you.”

Thor takes a few steps closer and clasps his shoulder, warmly, his mocking tone softening to match his eyes.  “Why are you despairing? Brother, this is wonderful.”

“Wonderful? Wonderful,” he repeats incredulously, finally turning away from the wall, “It’s a useless, pointless preoccupation born out of some…” Loki gestures helplessly, “some vestigial childhood **_sentiment_** ,” he spits the last word like poison with a pointed look in his brother’s direction, “over someone who can hardly bear the sight of me.”

“Do you mean when I interrupted your little production? Because honestly, I could barely stand to look at you at the time. For her, that was only hours ago.” 

Exasperated, his little brother shakes his head, moves to storm off down the hallway. The hand on Loki’s shoulder drops, gently barring his way. He could shove past Thor easily, if he really wanted, but stays put, jaw tight, still focused on his intended exit.

“You know, even after we stopped visiting, the mortals kept telling stories about us— often embellishments of events we’d shared with them, as well as their own predictions, extrapolation…The things they say about you, though. You're just... the **_worst._**  They were certain you were going to cause the apocalypse, for starters,” Thor shrugs. “Technically, we’d have to give them that one. You should hear what they thought we should do with you.” 

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“Chained to sharp rocks, in a deep, forsaken cave—” His brother finally turns to look at him, rolls his eyes heavily and whatever sarcastic comment he had ready is forgotten in favour of a look of bewildered disgust when Thor continues, “—bound with the entrails of your murdered children.”

“ ** _Excuse me_** —?”

“And this was before New York! It gets worse,” Thor continues cheerfully as Loki’s perturbed expression deepens. “There’s an enormous snake dripping venom in your face for all eternity. Or, at least, it would be. The way they tell it, your impossibly devoted wife sits at your side, to shield you from it. Would you like to guess the name they gave her?”    

It’s a different kind of dismay now, his confused revulsion slowly fading to a stunned horror as he realizes where the story is going.  “Oh no.”

“I had thought it a staggering coincidence— perhaps you or Sif mentioned her once, someone’s imagination ran wild, but you must have talked about her often, didn’t you? Because as far as I remember, Sigyn never visited Earth with us.”

“Not with us,” he replies softly, with a distracted, far-away look in his eye, “with me, just once.”  There’s a little twitch of something like a smile, but it’s gone as quickly as it had appeared. “It… didn’t end well. That was over a thousand years ago, and she hasn’t spoken to me since.” He presses for details, but Loki refuses to elaborate, just assures that it was nothing nefarious— only childish and stupid. His thoughts are still clearly elsewhere, one hand working at the joints of the other. There’s something more he isn’t saying, but Thor isn’t going to push him further.

It’s counter intuitive, but that his brother is hiding things is heartening. He hasn’t bothered to weave together any convenient fiction, and that leaves him in an awkward, but genuine, silence.

Even with the knowledge that this _something_ is missing, something still doesn’t quite make sense. Puzzled, Thor furrows his brows, contemplates the countless mundane memories of life at the palace that find her at their periphery.  “Sige spoke to us every day.”

“To **_you_** , certainly. You never noticed? To me, she says ‘yes, your Highness,’ and ‘no, your Highness,’ and then leaves the room as quickly as possible.” He gestures back towards the main hallway, and her earlier reluctance. He’s dropped his arm, but Loki’s made no move to leave, the focus on escape towards some lonely corner of the ship, or perhaps even the _Commodore_ , forgotten in favour of a pensive, mournful stare, eyes now downcast. This weighs on him, has evidently been weighing on him, quietly, for a very long time. Thor rests a friendly hand on the back of Loki’s neck.

“Well, Brother, I’m truly flattered that you’re content to spend the rest of your nigh-immortal life with no one but me for company,” Loki blanches.  “However… what better time to set things right between you? You’ve both survived an unprecedented calamity, all our dark secrets finally brought out into the light, all here together with nothing but free time until we reach Earth. Could this not be fate, bringing you together?”  If his brother’s eyes roll any father back in his head, he’ll be able to see his own brain.

He thinks for a moment, searching for something to lift his Loki’s spirits, and— well, what he’s left with is steeped in painful memories, but it’s the best he can share. “She suggested letting you out, you know. For the funeral.” That gets his attention. Loki’s head whips around to face him, expression caught in intense suspicion, which Thor tries to assuage with an encouraging smile. “Truly. Obviously, that was a terrible idea for a number of reasons, but she was adamant that you’d behave yourself for our mother’s sake.” Loki relaxes his narrowed eyes, but the look is troubled, pensive.  “Look, just come back out with me. What’s the worst that could happen?”

His brother remains silent, his face a mask of cold indifference, but Thor sees fragile hope in his eyes and when he draws away, towards the central chamber, Loki follows him.

“For the record,” he says when they’re halfway down the hall, “she was right, but so were you. I’d never do anything to upstage Mother; however…”

“Once it was over?”

“Oh, the ** _second_** it was over. You were never getting me back into that cell.”

The Hulk has set Sigyn down by the time they return, and she’s back to chatting excitedly with the Valkyrie. “I know you didn’t part on the best of terms,” Sigyn is telling her as they approach, “but it was clear to me how dearly—” she quiets when she sees them, and Thor sees it now, the strange shift in her demeanour. Loki’s seen it as well and beside him, as Thor places the hand back at the nape of his neck, he can feel him grow tenser, agitated.  She’s not smiling anymore, and the cheer has left her voice. It’s polite, reserved, deferential— a servant, not a friend. “It’s been lovely to meet you, Lady Brunnhilde. Your Majesty, your Highness, Sir Gatekeeper, I’ll let you return to your business.”  She bows, and turns to leave again.

Loki starts after her, his longer strides closing the gap quickly. “Sigyn, wait—”

Sigyn rounds on him, finally raises her gaze to meet his, and he’s hit with the full force of her wounded expression, the sorrow and disappointment in her eyes.  “To whom was I speaking? The afternoon, after the convergence. In the garden. Who was it?”

Loki’s eyes widen for an instant and he does what comes naturally when he’s cornered: plays it off as a joke. He smiles, and let’s out a familiar appeasing chuckle. “You know, if I respected you less, I could pretend to have no idea what you were talking about.”

Sigyns brows pull together, and she nods, resigned. “I… I truly am glad you’re all right, and please know that I am grateful for what you’ve done for us. If there’s any way I can be of service to you, your Highness, I will be happy to oblige. Beyond that… Please,“ her shoulders heave with a dejected, tremulous sigh, her voice drops to a whisper, “please leave me be.” She turns and walks away.

Loki lets her go, and Thor catches the moment of dejection before he lets out a noisy breath, throws up his hands, and walks back towards him.  It’s a performance. Sarcastic outrage masking genuine hurt. 

Heimdall and the Valkyrie have backed away to give the altercation so distance. Heimdall is his normal stoic self, Brunnhilde’s eyes are wide, her eyebrows raised, and deeply uncomfortable, as she can’t seem to decide if that was horrible or hilarious. Around them, the nearest citizens of Asgard are doing a terrible job acting as though they hadn’t overheard the drama. A few don’t bother pretending, and are giving Loki some prodigiously dirty looks.   

“Oh, and,” Loki begins, with a particularly insincere smile as he returns to Thor, who moves away towards the edge of the room for a bit of privacy, “that? That right there? **That** was the worst that could happen.”

Thor doesn’t think he’s ever seen Sigyn angry, before.  Guilt pools in his gut, along with sympathy for both of them. He shouldn’t have encouraged him, not before talking to her first, but he’d been so excited and gotten ahead of himself…. “Loki, just give her time.”

“Certainly,” he replies, the nonchalance just a little too put-on. He’s not sure if familiarity lets him see through the act, or if Loki **_wants_** him to know, while still being able to tell himself he’s hiding it. “She can have all the time there is, I’m done trying. What a relief. A weight has been lifted. Thank the All-Fathers!”

“Loki… If you tell me what happened, perhaps I can help. Let me talk to her.”

“Talk to her all you like, just leave me out of it.” He gives Thor another of those hostile smiles, and pats him on the shoulder, “Well, dear brother, I do believe I should go check in with my best friend. Ah…the… Kronan.”

“Korg?”

“Korg, yes. At least Korg likes me,” He gives Thor’s shoulder one last pat, but doesn’t let go, stops there as though tethered by it, and hesitates, his mouth working for a moment before finally, “Thor? Did….” He looks like he wants to reconsider, but he’s stuck now.  “Did they have a name for her? The mortals.”

“They did,” Thor smiles weakly against the ache in his chest, because his little brother— his once withdrawn, unknowable little brother’s heart is breaking, and he sees it this time. He **_sees it_** , because he’s finally looking, or because Loki lets him, he can’t be sure, but either way, he wants him to know that he’s here, that it’s safe to let Thor see him. “Goddess of fidelity,” he risks a chuckle, “to put up with you, she’d have to be.” 

Loki smiles, lets out a little snicker that bubbles into a peal of brittle laughter. “Well,” he says when he catches his breath, “what a relief that the mortals are sometimes wrong.” 

 

* * *

 

 

2013 AD: Asgard, Valaskjálf Gardens

It’s a beautiful afternoon— the Convergence's anomalies have calmed, leaving the sky a brilliant blue that has just begun to fade to gold along the horizon, but the sun is still warm against his face. Clearly, the weather hadn’t received the news that everything was terrible, and with Thor gone back to his mortal woman, there was no changing it to better suit his mood.

The air is cool, but the leaves haven’t yet begun to turn, and the palace gardens should still be in full bloom. Instead, nearly every stalk and vine has been plucked for the funeral pyres of the many, many Asgardians killed in the Svartalfar's attack the day before, leaving nothing but scant dots of colour among the twigs and leaves. There isn’t much use for an empty garden, but nevertheless he finds someone else already wandering there.

Sigyn traces a finger over one of the few buds left in a ransacked rosebush, before letting out a shuddering breath that becomes a sob, and buries her face in her hands. It’s been a very long time, and he’s certain that it feels longer, since he saw her last, and he’s overcome, for a moment, at the warring emotions she stirs in his chest. He doesn’t need to sort through them all, right now, because it’s hard to hate someone openly mourning his mother. 

“If you mean to water the flowers, there are surely better ways.”

Sigyn starts, whirling around, her reddened eyes widening in horror. She bows, hurriedly, eyes down. “My lord All-Father,” she stammers, voice still thick with tears, “forgive me, I—”

“Its alright, my dear, it’s alright. I know,” he soothes, and she looks back up at him, bewildered. He gestures to a stone bench along the path. “Sit, please,” it’s an offer, but she complies so quickly and stiffly that she must take it for an order.  She watches him apprehensively, posture rigid as he eases himself, slowly, into the other side of the bench, a respectable distance away, his good eye to her.

“Your Majesty, I… I cannot begin to imagine your grief, I—” it’s an apology for her own weeping, and the harder she tries to stop, the harder she seems to cry. He conjures a handkerchief and she accepts it, once she realizes he’s holding it out to her, though she’s visibly perplexed by the gesture. She thanks him, and dabs at her eyes.

They sit in silence, beside songbirds chirping and the occasional sob or shudder from Sigyn. “My…” she begins to speak but her voice dies, and she looks to him as though for permission. He inclines his head, listening. “When my mother died, I just… went out into the woods for three days,” she leans on her elbows, hugging herself close. “I… I don’t want to bore you, your Majesty. How much do you know about her?”

“I am very old. I may have forgotten. Remind me.”

 “My mother was born to a peasant family, in the leaner times of King Bor's reign. She and Dag would hunt, and fish, or go hungry. They would spend days in the forests together, living like a pair of wild animals,” she struggles around the lump in her throat. “They were happy there. When Dag died, she went into the forests and the mountains to feel close to him, and eventually brought my father with her. When he died, she went there for him, as well. She brought me along, hoping I might feel his presence. So that’s where I went, when I lost her.”

“Is that why you’re here, now?” she can’t speak, only nods, and he smiles at her ruefully. “Me too.” Sigyn’s hair is unbound, falling about her shoulders, and she starts to work at it, the handkerchief in her lap. “I imagine you did a great deal for us, yesterday. For Frigga. Did anyone thank you?”

“It was an honour,” she insists, with another sniffle. “She was so good to me, anything I could do for her in return… I…. I helped, going through her things, finding offerings for the pyre. If…. If you need to do it again, I’m not sure how much help I’ll be, but I’m willing.” 

It takes him a moment to realize what she means. “I appreciate the offer, but that won’t be necessary. Funeral rites are for the loved ones who survive. My son’s body is lost to the wastelands of Svartalfheim. He had no friends, that I know of. Thor has returned to Midgard. Frigga is gone, and Asgard still mourns its Queen. I can hardly ask the people to find room in their hearts for someone so…. difficult with her loss still so fresh. It would just be a sad old man with an empty boat full of things that might yet be useful.”

“My disgraced son gave his life avenging his mother. It is a fitting end, the best that was left to him. Whether it redeems him enough for Valhalla, I cannot say.”  

Sigyn shudders, nods, reaches for the cloth again. “Thor told me. Before he left. I….” she lets out another trembling breath. “I did my best. It was difficult, but I…. I do understand, I think. Or at least, I know that there is a purpose, even if the details are beyond me.” 

What.

He has absolutely no context for this. So he does the only thing he can. “Of course, my dear, of course,” he assures her, watching her reaction, to backpedal if need be. It seems to be working. “You always do. Frigga was so proud of you. She knew, any task she entrusted to you would be handled with the utmost integrity and care.” She looks up at him, tears caught in her eyes. “She found your peculiar ideas charming. She knew she could send you to meet with peasant farmers, or the King of Niðavellir, and you’d show them the same kindness. Said she wished she could take credit, but you came to her that way. ”

The tears spill over, stream down her face. “I… I feel so lost, thinking of how I’ll never see her again….Or my mother, or….”

“Not in this life, surely, but beyond—”

“No, I… I know,” she can’t meet his eye, stares despondently at a bare flower bed. "I hold no delusions about myself, your Majesty. I know there’s no place for someone like me in the halls of the honoured dead. And I have the unfortunate habit of loving such valiant people.”

“Sigyn,” she jumps, taken aback by the force of his tone, and nearly cowers. “You served my Queen faithfully for over a thousand years. Do you truly believe, when your time comes— a very, very long time from now at the end of a full and happy life— do you really think Frigga would forget you?”

She chokes out a breath, and begins sobbing in earnest, now face in her hands, struggling to draw breath.  “I failed her,” she manages, finally. “I should have been there, I… I know I'm no warrior, let alone the warrior she was, but Thor was so close. If I could have bought her a even a few seconds— I… I just **_hid_** , in the **_kitchens—_** ”

“And she says there’s no place for her in Valhalla.” His instinct is to pull her in close, rest a hand on her shoulder, anything to ease this. He lets out a slow breath, and speaks gently. This is not his— not Odin. Odin would have ordered her from the gardens immediately, chastised her to harden her heart. He’d been willing to bring war down upon Asgard, sacrifice her to his revenge, if it came to that. He would have no soft words for her, no comfort, just as he would have had none for Thor, earlier.

Well, fuck him.

“Sigyn, listen to me,” he says, and waits for her to turn her face to him again. “If you had been in that room, the only difference would have been one more pyre to light. Each of them was too many.  The Svartalfar would have loved nothing more than to snuff out a light like yours, and Asgard would be darker for it.”

It’s so much easier to say what’s in his heart when it’s coming out of someone else’s mouth.

“I…” she and her tears come to an uneasy armistice for a moment, and something like a laugh shines through them. She smooths out the front of her _hangerock_ and the dandelion-yellow dress beneath. “It’s an easy mistake to make, your Majesty, but really it’s just a lot of loud colours.”

They laugh together, at that, and though it’s uneasy, still tearful, the crying seems to have abated.

”I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself, now,” she admits after a few minutes of peaceful silence.

“If you would be happier elsewhere, I will do everything in my power to arrange it,” he tells her, relieved at her immediate shake of her head, and smiles. “Well then, I promise that I will have much need of you, if you’ll assist me. Though, perhaps not as often as my Queen had. Sigyn, may I ask: are you happy? Not at the moment, obviously, but in a general sense. Are you happy, do you derive some pleasure out of life?”

“Yes, my King,” she replies, nodding quickly, “I found my work for her Majesty to be most rewarding.”     

He shakes his head, waves that answer away. “Besides work. You spend so many of your days within the palace grounds. You hide it well, but in your heart, you are no tame creature. Is there not something more that you want?”

She thinks for a moment, “I have not been the most present friend. If I could, it might be nice to pass more time with them. I’ve been trying, since the bifrost was destroyed. Apart from that…” she ducks her head, but smiles bashfully. “There is one thing… It’s silly, but…”

“Is it something I can grant you?”

“No, nothing like that. Just the time to do it.”

“Then you shall have it,” he nods resolutely. “I lost my father to war. My brothers. My Queen, and now…” he sighs, “one son is killed, the other chooses exile. I’m sure you know I had meant to retire, but that is no longer possible, and I cannot go on as I have. I think I too will devote more time to gentler, sillier pursuits.”  He stares out over the city, the gold and orange of the sunset creeping farther up.

“Sigyn, if today were perfect: no grief, no obligations, complete freedom and joy, what would you want to do?”

She considers this, fingers raking through her hair, and she smiles, slowly, as it occurs to her.  “Saddle Hófvarpnir. Take her through the field and the trails through the forest. If it were truly perfect, Sif would come, too.”

“Then go. There are a few hours of daylight remaining, and I’m sure Lady Sif would appreciate the company.”

She nods, standing, and pauses, looking back to him with a heartfelt “Thank you,” bows and takes her leave.

He’s about to relax when she pokes her head back around a hedge and nearly stops his heart. “Your Majesty, I… I just wanted to say. I wouldn’t worry over the prince's soul.”

“Oh?” he says, trying very hard to sound casual as his heart rate spikes, “why would that be?”

“They must be together. Her Majesty wouldn’t stand for it, otherwise. She’d uproot Yggdrasil to get to him.”  

It’s suddenly very hard to breathe, as he thanks her for the comfort.

Loki waits until she's truly gone before he drops the disguise, letting out a long sigh and sprawling back against the stone bench as everything shifts back into familiar place, his face in his hands and then back through his hair. The garden is abandoned, so he can steal a few moments in his preferred form before going back to the charade.

There are a pair of ravens perched in a nearby shade tree, and here, he’s safe from all but their judgmental gaze. He turns his eyes upwards. "She was crying; now she isn't," he says, defensively, to no one, "you're welcome."  If his Mother is watching from Valhalla, he can imagine the look she would be giving him now, and his stomach knots, for all the good it does him.

He’s in far too deep for guilt to sway him, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That awkward moment when you mention your childhood crush to the humans, and it makes it into the Prose Edda forever. 
> 
> I'd like to sincerely thank everyone for their patience with my restructuring, and thank any new readers! I hope you're enjoying thus far. My goal to have this finished by endgame was pretty ambitious, and I'm realizing, less than ten days out from the day I got a ticket for, that there's no way I can finish this in time. I may have to rework things after the fact, or I might just write this as I plotted it just for the practice of writing it, and slap an AU tag on there. I promised myself I wouldn't bog down these notes with my personal feelings, but I have been feeling pretty discouraged lately. I've read some truly amazing stuff on here, and I know my own work doesn't hold a candle to them. But!! But I can't get as good as I'd like to be without lots and lots of practice, so come hell or high water or canon, I am finishing this story one way or another. I'll keep publishing it in case anyone is enjoying it. 
> 
> Also, I have to attribute a line here, "Do you get any pleasure out of life?" is a thing my Grandfather legit asked me when I was describing my work/school schedule to him once.
> 
> Also as this goes from being like 7 chapters to way more, my thematic chapter naming is beginning to run thin and my associations get more tenuous xD


	4. Judgement

975 AD: Asgard, Beneath  Valaskjálf

Quick, quiet steps take him from the cover of one column to the next and he feels more than hears his companion skid to a halt beside him, the sounds of her worn riding boots against the stone floor as soft as when she’s stalking game.

Loki turns in response to a gentle tug at his sleeve, and huddled in the shelter of the same massive pillar, the young ásynja is watching him nervously.

“Is this really okay?” she mouths, the worry in her face not fading when he nods enthusiastically in reply.  “Then why are we **_sneaking_** _?”_    Still, when he feels the Einherjar guard pacing the length of the hallway is suitably out of view, and darts the final distance towards the stairwell, she’s right behind him.

He’s done this twice, to be sure he could do it, before attempting to smuggle his friend in with him.

 ** _His_** friend— It’s been over a year, and the thought is still unfamiliar, though not unwelcome. It feels something like pride, and settles in his chest like a comfortable warmth.

They make it down the stairs, the hallway disappearing from view as they descend into the cavernous space, dimly lit by a series of braziers and a muted white glow from the far end of the chamber, reflected in the shallow pools of water along the walls. Loki is halfway down the last flight when he notices only the sounds of his own footfalls. A glance behind finds his companion hesitating at the landing, working uneasily at one copper pigtail.  

“It’s alright,” he assures her gesturing broadly towards the ceiling to the palace above them. “I live here. I’ve been in **_your_** cellar, haven’t I?”

“Yes, but my cellar is mostly dried meats and jars of pickles...”

“Sigyn,” he begins, looking up at her and doing his best to sound comforting, “are we going to touch anything?”

She shakes her head, answers softly, “no…”

 “Are we going to steal anything?”

“No.”

Loki raises an eyebrow, “are we going to bring about Ragnarök?”

Her eyes go wide at that. “No!”

“Then it’s fine! No one will ever know we were here,” Loki grins, gesturing towards himself to encourage her along.  “Father brought us down here a week ago. I’ve been hoping to show it too you ever since.” 

The grip on her braid loosens as she relaxes a little, eyes hopeful. “Really?”

“Of course. The only thing better than getting to see interesting things is having someone to discuss them with. Especially someone who would be in favour of a visit to the library afterwards, for further research…?”

Sigyn takes one last anxious glance towards the way they came, then turns her attention back to Loki, and to his delight, hastens down the stairs to meet him.

“Woah,” she breathes, awed, as she fully takes in the vault, looking up to the high ceilings of the cavernous space, to the rows of curiosities gathered from across the far reaches of the cosmos on their pedestals, recessed into alcoves along the walls. “It’s really creepy.”

“Yeah,” Loki agrees, “isn’t it great?” They’re smiling at each other when she turns back to him, with a guilty, giddy nod of her head in reply.

"What is all this?" she asks, finally at ease enough to breathe real voice into her words as they pass the first display, some unnerving construction made of gold that gives the impression of a great, impassive eye. At present, he's fairly certain that she's paused uncomfortably close to a fire taken straight from the heart of Muspelheim, but can't tell her much more than that.

"Some of them I know," he admits, with a cursory glance at the strange objects. Truth be told, he's already been at the palace library himself, and came up with very little. While he's eager to try again with a second set of keen eyes and some friendly company, he's quite certain that the information he's after either can't be found in any book, or, the more likely (and more interesting) explanation: that the relevant materials are being hidden elsewhere. "There's a sword down here somewhere that kills someone whenever it's drawn, and a ring that dooms anyone who wears it," Loki begins as he scans the confiscated relics for ones he can name for her.

She turns back to him, wide-eyed, firelight catching the red in her hair. "That's horrible," she breathes, fists clenching the faded, once goldfinch-yellow linen of her tunic, for fear of absentmindedly touching something deadly.

"They're cursed," he replies with a casual shrug, "they're meant to be horrible."

“Is anything down here **_not_** cursed?”

Most of the vault’s contents are awful in one way or another. There’s only one really benign thing he knows of, and one other too terrible to let her see. It’s a little nagging thought in the back of his mind, but he does his best to silence it. As long as he keeps her from the end of the hallway, everything should be fine. Sigyn’s at war with herself when he looks to her again, that familiar spark of curiosity tempered with caution. She’s fascinated, but ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Convincing her to leave will be easy enough.

“This way,” he motions farther in with a nod of his head, and she hurries after, as he leads her, cautiously, towards a particular plinth, further along than he had planned to go. He keeps himself to her right to block the rest of the chamber, shepherding her towards the particular alcove and no further. 

Sigyn creeps towards the hammer where it rests atop the pedestal, stopping just close enough to study the fine detail of the carved uru, head inclined and a glimmer of recognition in her eyes, before turning back to him, eager for anything he has to impart. It’s among the best known of the treasures safeguarded here, but he tells her all he can and if she’s heard it already, she makes no mention of it. 

Mjolnir is Niðavellir’s finest work, masterfully crafted and powerfully enchanted.  Loki sighs, and shifts uneasily, a heavy discomfort settling in the pit of his stomach. There is one last thing he knows about it.

“I’ve overheard my parents talking,” Loki confesses, surprised at his own reluctance. “It’s to be Thor’s, when he comes of age.”

Sigyn nods thoughtfully, looking back over the weapon with his brother in mind, and smiles with an approving little hum. “And yourself?” She asks it so brightly, so completely **_certain_** that his father would never forget him that for a moment he believes it, too. Her brows furrow when he hesitates, taking a step back out into the hallway to look the things over again, as if she might have missed some fitting equivalent.

Loki sighs, running a hand through his hair and turning his scrutinizing gaze back to the artefact. He’s young yet, but even with his few years of training, it’s apparent that he’ll never have any use for a war hammer. Still, he has the sneaking suspicion the kind of son who had use for a war hammer was also the kind of son to whom Odin might grant such a gift. It’s a dark little thought, that leaves a sickly little feeling where it gnaws at the hope her confidence had kindled in him a moment before.

A humourless little smile tugs at his lips. “Nothing down here is for me.”

She doesn’t respond, the silence where her answer should be hanging in the vault’s stale air for a long moment before he’s suddenly very conscious of the soft sound of Sigyn’s boots against the stone floor. More importantly, the sound’s direction. Oh no. No, **_no._** Loki spins on his heel and throws himself into a sprint.

She has a bad habit of wandering off after things, on their outings, so quietly that no one notices she’s gone. She doesn’t mean to sneak away, but something catches her eye, and a second later she’s vanished. 

He’s certain that he’d only taken his eyes off of her for an instant, but as he tears out of the alcove, it’s already too late. She’s come to a halt at the end of the hallway, no longer clenching her clothing, but rather hugging herself close. “Loki?” she says as he skids to a halt beside her, voice scarcely above a whisper, “is this….?”

“Nothing!” he says hastily, with feigned levity, trying to strep between her and the thing his father had brought back from Jötunheim. He places a hand on her shoulder and tries to gently turn her away, but she stays pinned to the spot, and he’s isn’t willing to shove hard enough to force her.  “That’s nothing, just a stupid box— ” The mournful expression she gives him through her lowered lashes tells him that she knows **_exactly_** what it is. Loki sighs, defeated, and rests his face in his free hand.  “Don’t— don’t look at that,” he implores, all pretense forgotten.  “You shouldn’t look at that.”

His heart’s pounding away against his ribs, a sudden icy panic settling down the back of his neck, because what if he’s ruined everything, and what if she turns, and leaves, and never wants to see him again, and his frantic attempts to stem the bleeding pour out of him in a torrent. “Sigyn, I—  I should never have brought you down here. I was so sure that I could—” 

“I’m glad you wanted to.”

The frantic spiralling stops at the sound of her voice. Sigyn’s braving a little smile when he peeks between his fingers.

“It’s neat down here, and I’m really happy you wanted to show it to me. Even this thing’s neat. Scary, but…” she tilts her head, watching the dancing waves of shadow it casts. The casket spills white-blue light into the chamber, a dark cloud of something swirling inside like a drop of ink in water, roiling like a stormy sea. “It’s kind of… pretty,” she muses, as the eerie light dances across her face. “I mean… in the way that wolfs bane, and foxglove, and high places are.” There’s still a distracted little smile on her face as she watches it, but her eyes are sorrowful. “It’s good to know it’s down here, where it can’t hurt anyone ever again.”

“Those monsters will never lay hand on it again, Sigyn, I swear to you. Never,” he assures her, but she doesn’t reply, just reaches to worry the pigtail again.  “You must miss him,” Loki says, quietly. She shrugs a little bit in reply.

“I don’t think you can miss someone you’ve never met,” she says after thinking on it. “He’s just…. **_missing._** Like there’s a place where someone should be, and he isn’t. Mum, though…” she sighs, surprised when her breath crystallises in front of her in the chilled air.   

Loki gets an idea, and he leans in close to her with a wicked smile. “Dare me to touch it?” he whispers.

“No,” she replies immediately.

He takes a playful step closer, arm extended. “Okay, here we go….” A heavy, grinding sound rumbles through the chamber but the children pay it no mind.

“Loki, **_no_** ,” she must know he’s only kidding, because her protests have a hint of laughter to them.

“Alright, alright,” he concedes, then puzzles theatrically at the still extended arm. “Huh, I can’t seem to… Oh dear,” he mimes wrestling with it, as the errant hand continues towards the casket. “Sigyn, I’m bewitched, I can’t help myself—“ A white light sparks inside the casket. Sigyn wraps her arms around him and tries to pull him away as he keeps up the bit, but she could just pick him up and walk away with him if she really wanted to. Instead they topple over as they wrestle, landing against the pillar and both gasping, the breath held in horrified anticipation as the Casket of Ancient Winters rocks on it’s plinth, but finally settles, safely, in place.

At once they let out the breath as a relieved laugh, another little wisp like mist slipping from Sigyn’s lips, huddled in a pile against the glacial stone beneath the relic. They look up at once as that noise returns, but louder, as the grate now in front of them melts away. An immense figure steps through the haze of bright light.

The creature— device? **_Thing_** — is like a suit of armor but far larger than any Asgardian, polished metal reflecting the bright glare and firelight, covered in cruel spikes. When it turns its gaze on the two wide-eyed children, they can see fire burning behind its visor and the thin gaps in its plates, feel the heat rolling off of it like a furnace. It reaches towards them.

The children scream, scrambling to their feet. Sigyn freezes in place staring at the thing in wide-eyed horror; Loki grabs her by the wrist and bolts. He only makes it a few yards before he feels Sigyn wrenched from his grasp. He turns, mind racing, how best to free her, but before he can act its immense metal arm wraps around him next.

A few moments later, an otherwise uneventful patrol down the hallway is interrupted as the Destroyer clanks its way up the steps, a screaming, squirming, ten year old under each arm. The guardian bowls the two out on to the floor, and they’re sent skidding across the ground, before scrambling to their feet and sprinting, hand-in-hand, down the hallway as fast as their legs will carry them.  

They collapse in a heap when the Destroyer is out of sight, at the foot of a staircase to a higher level, and the armored Einherjar pursuing them clatter to a noisy stop. The little ásynja is strange to them, but they certainly recognize the boy, who props himself up on his elbows and indicates them with an accusing jab of his finger. “You tell my father I was down there,” the prince pants, “and you also have to explain how I got past you.”

The Einherjar exchange a look, about-face, and continue back down the hall.

“Are you alright?” Loki asks, looking back to her, frantically, to find her checking herself over. There’s no blood, and he seems unharmed as well. The creature seems to have grabbed them carefully, so as not to stick them with it’s sharp metal points.

She nods, concerned, turning the same attention to him. “Are you?”

“A little warm,” he admits, face flushed from the oppressive heat radiating from behind the metal, and sprawls against the cool stone flooring. He lays a dramatic hand against his foreheads, feigns a faint. “Alas, my delicate constitution…. My heart can’t bear the strain; I die!”

“Oh no!” Sigyn exclaims, gathering him in her arms, which isn’t quite the relief the marble is— she’s so **_warm_** — but he doesn’t mind. “However to revive you? The fairy stories all suggest a kiss from a prince— I shall fetch Thor at once!”

 “Oh, would you look at that? Miraculously, I am well again!” 

They both start giggling, breathless, flooded with relief as their racing hearts accept that they’re safe. “Sige, I had no idea that thing was down there,” he says, eyes wide and tone apologetic. “I would’ve never brought you down there if I’d known.”    

She smiles, that nervous, dizzy, elation that comes from narrowly escaping disaster. “I thought it was going to eat us!” There’s no blame in it, just a shared misadventure.

“Found you!”

They look up, and peering over the edge of the flight of stairs is Thor, grinning down at them. He takes the stairs a flight at a time, Sif hastening behind him. “We’ve been looking all over. You **_said_** you’d be in the library,” Sif scolds when she reaches thebottom of the stairs. “Your mother’s here to collect— why are you on the floor?” She eyes them skeptically.

“We started in the library,” Loki says easily. “Then we wanted to race each other.”

“Yes,” Sigyn agrees, trying desperately to look innocent.  “We were running as fast as we possible could.”

Saying things that are technically true, but misleading, is as close as Sigyn ever gets to lying, and it still makes her profoundly uneasy. Still, she’ll do it if she’s promised to keep a secret for him. He’d sworn her to secrecy before they’d begun their sneaking, and Sigyn treats even casual promises with the severity of an oath sworn on Yggdrasil itself.

Thor offers them each a hand, and both clamber to their feet. “Who won?”

“Loki did,” Sigyn answers before Loki can, and Thor gives him an approving grin and claps him on the back as they start back up to the palace’s main level. Sigyn isn’t very competitive; it’s one of the things that makes spending time with her so easy, doing things for the fun of them without keeping score. She understands, though, that it’s different between him and his brother.

“Thank you,” he mouths, appreciatively.

“It’s true though,” she whispers back with a tiny shrug. “You got farther.”

“We both lost.”

“Absolutely.” 

Sif glances back over her shoulder, an eyebrow cocked, at the whispering and hushed snickers, and they quiet down again.

“You know…” she says, speaking plainly again. She can’t hide her voice without being suspicious, so she just hides her meaning instead. “I think you and I could have fun anywhere. Like, the library, or we could bring apples to the stables again, or the pond to go look at frogs, or…” she stops, bites her lip as she thinks.

“You’re stuck on the frogs now, aren’t you?” He smiles, hopefully. “Tomorrow after training, then?”

“Yeah!” she skips a few paces, “School, training, pond,” she beams, bounding excitedly beside him. “I’m going to hold you to that.” Loki’s heart leaps in his chest, scarcely able to believe his luck. He nearly gets her killed, and she still wants to see him.

“I want to come look at frogs…” Thor complains, and it looks like it will end up as a group outing. That his brother **_wants_** to invite himself along is hardly the worst thing Loki can imagine. There’s a considerable disparity in their interests, but Sigyn’s always seem to bridge them nicely.  

Lady Sigrun takes the young ásynjur home, and he and Thor return to the royal solar for the evening.  He tries to act casually despite the apprehension creeping up when he encounters his mother, reading by the fireplace in their private chambers, but she makes no mention of anything awry, just smiles, and asks about their day.

“After weapons class, Sif and I practiced with swords, more,” Thor tells her as he falls back into the unoccupied cushion beside her, “while Loki and Sige went to the library again.”

“Is that so? A nice, quiet afternoon, then.” She glances at him, sidelong, and there’s a coy gleam in her eye that worries him for a moment, but nothing comes of it. His father says nothing when he arrives home, either, and Loki goes to bed that night with the giddy sense of having gotten away with something.

It’s many years later before Destroyer comes up in conversation, mentioned as an asset to consider while they sit in on their Father’s council meeting. “Destroyer?” There’s been too much talk of trade routes and inter-realm communications for his taste, but suddenly Thor is paying attention. 

“A protector,” Their father begins, turning to them, “wrought from metal and magic. A powerful construct, which can strike down foes with both its imposing form, and the fire that dwells within it. It can be deployed, in times of crisis, but otherwise, it protects the weapons vault,” Loki’s eyes go wide at the description, and he shrinks in his seat, “from **any** intruder.” Odin’s fingers curl around the ornate golden spear in his hand, to draw their attention to it before he speaks again. “With Gungnir, I command it…. and see through its eyes as I do.”

His father says nothing more, but the one piercing blue eye and its knowing gaze fall upon him, and Loki feels all the colour drain from his face.

 

* * *

 

 

2018 AD: Somewhere in Space, the _Statesman_

 

Marking the passage of time is tricky aboard the ship, but an educated guess, informed by his fatigue and the persistent gnawing of his empty stomach, says they’re well into their second day of travel when Loki finds himself trapped in a corridor. 

The ship’s not nearly big enough to effectively avoid Sigyn, and as she seems to have put herself in charge of some kind of head-count, he encounters her everywhere.

There are ways past her, if he really wanted. It’s more taxing up here in space, cut off from the World Tree, but he has more than enough strength left to hide himself with his magic. He could become any of other people on the ship, change his shape and slither through the crowd. Really, he should go about his business if only to spite her— make **_her_** leave if she can’t stand his presence, but he can’t summon up the necessary vitriol, and it’s not like he has anywhere to be, so he waits, watching the main chamber from the shadow of the corridor.

Apparently, she’d been entertaining the little ones while they’d hid themselves from Hela in the old fortress, and it’s earned her the rank of a favourite nursemaid; she always seems to have someone else’s children clinging to her as she works. For the moment, Volstagg’s family is clustered together elsewhere, and Sigyn is taking a break from her makeshift census to entertain the two little girls belonging to that other ásynja while she’s busy with her baby. He’d put them at six and twelve, with the same pale blonde hair. The little one is happily babbling away about something while the elder eyes her, unimpressed, slumped cross-legged in her muddied dress, sullen face resting on her fist.

He’s not looking to start a confrontation in front of two already distraught children— he’s already a monster from children’s stories, best not start behaving like one.

The younger one gasps, her eyes huge with terror as the Hulk wanders by, stuffing something into his gullet. The elder sister scrambles to her feet and ducks behind Sigyn, who tries to calm them both.  “It’s alright, see? Hello, Hulk!” She waves to him, and the girls freeze as he turns his massive head towards them and raises a broad palm. “He’s a friend of the King’s. Go on, Hlin, do you want to say hello?”  Still staring, the little girl raises her tiny hand and wiggles her fingers in greeting. “Lofn?” The other one, Lofn, is looking at Sigyn as though she’s lost her mind, and though whatever she says is muttered low, Loki distinctly hears the word ‘troll’ drift over from her direction.

The Hulk approaches his hiding place, and it’s not until he stops beside him that Loki realizes he was coming over to him and not simply lumbering past. He stiffens, deliberately keeps his eyes forward when he feels the Hulk studying him, hoping that he can be uninteresting enough for the creature to move along. He doesn’t, and an immense green hand shoves him by the shoulder as the beast grunts at him.

“Yes?” he turns towards the massive figure, voice strained, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. “Can I help you?”

The Hulk leans in, uncomfortably close, and just stares at him for a long moment before straightening. “PUNY GOD SAD,” he pronounces.

“No, no,” he shakes his head, puts on a forced smile. “Just tired and bored.”

“NO,” the Hulk bellows, shoves him again more firmly. “PUNY-GOD LYING.”

“You know, my name is Loki. You can call me Loki. I mean, really, my full title is—”

“PUNY.”

Loki sighs. This one’s a losing battle, and he’s actively been down-graded from god, now.   “Right.”

“PUNY **SAD** ,” the Hulk insists, with a sharp jut of his squared chin towards the main hall, and the person he’s avoiding. “SAD OVER RED-HAIR,” the creature scoffs, crinkling his features in distaste. ”LIKE **BANNER**.”

Loki’s brow furrows, and he quirks an eyebrow. “ ** _Romanoff_**? Really?” He puzzles over that for a moment, bewildered. “Norns, she’d eat him **_alive_**.”  Pun intended. He isn’t sure if the hulk appreciates it, but to Loki’s surprise he does nod and laughs at the imagery, at least, a few thunderous chuckles from deep within the Hulk’s chest shaking the air.

If Loki ever needed a perfect, crystalline example of how absurd his situation is, this is it: gossiping with the Hulk over Bruce Banner’s miserable romantic affairs. Or, stranger still, **_commiserating_**.

“It’s just…” He pauses, how best to word this. He gets the impression that the beast isn’t going to go away without some kind of acknowledgement and he’s going to have to word this as simply as possible. “Sigyn,” he gestures outwards, “and I,” he pats his chest, “were friends, when we were children.”  Loki gestures lower, palm flat, to around chest height. “Now she **_hates_** me,” he throttles nothing, “and I’m stuck on this stupid tiny ship with her until further notice.”

The Hulk hums, a deep, rumbling, thoughtful sound. “PUNY BAD,” he tells him, nodding sagely. “BETTER. WAS VERY BAD. LESS BAD NOW.” 

“Thank you?” he says, primarily baffled but maybe a little encouraged by it, too. “I am trying.” The more they talk, the less it sounds like an insult and the more it just sounds like a name, he supposes, the way anything loses it’s shape when repeated too often. This may mean he answers to ‘Puny’ now. Wonderful. “It was a long time before that, though,” he adds, and the Hulk’s face screws up in thought, and he makes an inquisitive grumble.

“Honestly? I can’t say. All I know is that I did something stupid, I did everything in my power to fix it, everything worked out, but she still never forgave me.”

“BAD FRIEND.”

Loki chuckles humourlessly to himself. “You could say that, yes.” There is, of course, another reason, and while he can understand it, it still puts a knot in his stomach.

“THOR AND ANGRY-GIRL FIGHT,” the Hulk says proudly. ”MAKE ANGRY-GIRL LISTEN. FRIENDS NOW.” The Hulk nods, letting out a noisy breath, and quiets, contenting himself to watch the people pass by. It’s almost a comfortable silence as they sit together, and slowly that apprehension, tight in his chest whenever the beast is in striking range, is unwinding.  He sits with his back to the wall, tips his head back, just a second to rest his eyes. He really needs to find a better place to sleep, somewhere less exposed.

Loki’s not sure what stirs him to action, at first, but without warning the Hulk steps forward. “PUNY STAY,” he orders, leaning down and jabbing a thick finger into Loki’s chest. “STAY,” and Loki, already dozing, only realizes too late what he means when he then says, “HULK FIX.” 

Out in the central chamber, the girls’ mother has just taken them back into her care when the Hulk stomps up to Sigyn. One massive hand nudges her along towards the hallway as he indicates with a motion of his head and an insistent grunt that she needs to follow him, which she has little choice but to do. She’s not alarmed until she reaches the hallway, sees Loki, and tries to flee, colliding with the Hulk’s giant green palm.

“NO,” he barks, though he scoops her up carefully. “BAD FRIEND.”

“No, Please— Please put me down,” she says frantically. “I can’t—“

Loki scrambles to his feet, but the Hulk surges forward more quickly than seems possible for a creature his size, and grabs him by the leg. “No, no, no— No, **_not again—!_** “ is all he manages before he’s hauled upside-down into the air by his ankles. 

The Hulk stomps down the hallway towards the hangar, one of them in each fist like a child might carry dolls. He pauses for a moment, which Loki uses to try to get his attention again. The Hulk ignores him, and when, even at the risk of antagonizing the beast, Loki orders him to unhand her, it’s not nearly as commanding as he’d like with all the blood rushing to his head.

“BAD FRIENDS TALK.” Hulk tells them firmly. “FIX.”

“We haven’t been friends in a very long time,” Loki chokes, voice hindered by his current position.

The Hulk storms over to a door along the wall and kicks it open. It’s something like a small storage area, shelves lined with tools and equipment for maintenance and repairs, and after a moment of consideration, he whips Loki at the far wall, sending him crashing into a pile of crates. Sigyn, he tosses more gently, and she lands on her feet halfway from the door.   “THEN NEED **LONG TALK** ,” he roars, and then slams the door so hard the room trembles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I mentioned this on my blog, but this was feeling familiar as I was writing it, and I realized what it reminded me of. This is the one where I just lifted a line verbatim from a Disney film. 
> 
> A big thank you to everyone reading, I hope you've enjoyed thus far!


	5. The Magician

 

 

2011 AD: Asgard, Valaskjálf Gardens

“Loki! Loki, over here!” He looks up to find his brother waving to him from down the hallway, gathered with his friends on a walkway overlooking the gardens. This doesn’t bode well, but here’s made eye contact, so there’s no pretending he hasn’t seen him. Thor meets him halfway and throws an arm over his narrower shoulder, excitedly motioning for silence as he directs his attention to the garden below.

Thor’s coronation is two weeks away, and the party from Vanaheim arrived the previous evening. The young Vanir princesses are here, along with a full retinue of other important nobles and their attendants.  Asgard and Vanaheim have as close a relationship as any two realms can, and the young Vanr, of an age with them, walking through the garden below with Sigyn on his arm, is very familiar. 

“Took the old fellow long enough,” Fandral smirks. “Who had ‘before Ragnarok’ in the Theoric-grows-a-pair pool? Because it certainly wasn’t me.”

“I can’t believe it,” Volstagg beams, and is maybe only half joking when he mimes wiping away a tear. “Thor to be crowned King, sweet Sigyn with a suitor… my little ones are all grown up.”

Fandral quirks an eyebrow. “Volstagg, you have actual children.”

“Yes,” he admits, “but you lot were my first.” 

Thor grins, blue eyes glinting mirthfully. “He had a little help. It was Father himself who suggested she show him around during his stay. And from there…. Well, we’ll see, wont we?” 

Theoric’s clothes are fine, deep crimson, and mark him as nobility, but not a warrior, his long, black hair tied at a knot at the back of his head. They walk arm in arm, chatting, though he can’t make out the words from this distance. It’s not overtly romantic, but far more familiar than an attaché need be— and Theoric has spent long stretches of time in Valaskjálf. He has no need for a guide.

“Something troubling you, Loki?” It’s easy to forget Hogun is there, he’s so quiet, but when Loki looks up the other Vanr is studying his face carefully, and Fandral quirks an eyebrow when Hogun draws his attention there.

“Hel, man,” Fandral exclaims, looking him up and down, “that’s quite the sullen face! It’s not **_that_** shocking, is it?” 

Loki takes a breath, shaking his head and willing away the telling expression. To avoid questions, give an answer they’ll understand best. “Sigyn and I were born in the same year,” he mumbles, forcing his eyes away from the couple. “If Father expects **_me_** to settle down, next, he has another thing coming.”   

“Ah,” Fandral nods, gives him a discreet, approving wink.  “I wouldn’t trouble yourself over that yet, Loki. All of that sort of pressure’s going to be on this fellow, now,” he grins, nudges Thor in the ribs with a suggestive tilt of his eyebrows. “Have you given any thought to your future Queen?”   

“That’s… a long way off,” Thor insists, with a good-natured chuckle of his own. He’s only partially paying attention as they go on like that, Volstagg extols the many virtues of marriage (his gaze fixed directly at Fandral), Thor implies that it’s about time for Sigyn to marry but not himself, as ladies marry younger, and just keeps digging the hole deeper as he tries to explain his meaning to Sif. The brunt of Loki’s attention lies in the gardens.

Sigyn smiles, rocking on her heels with sudden excitement, and Loki knows that look. She’s got a joke nocked, and from her gleeful anticipation, it’s bound to be terrible. He can tell from her posture when she lets it fly, but it misses its mark. Theoric’s only reaction is a patient smile, expression more endurance than enjoyment, and Sigyn’s face falls when he fails to respond. Its maddening, watching him fumble something so simple.

_She’s invited you to a game, idiot. Play it._

He watches the crestfallen look fade to a sigh, and she walks on in passive silence. 

“It’s a good match,” he returns his attention to the group in time to hear Hogun. “He is a good man, from a good family. He will take good care of her.” Hogun hesitates, and Loki doesn’t miss it when he directs his attention to the Trickster god, specifically. “Anyone who calls themselves her friend should be pleased.”

Well, luckily for him, Sigyn hasn’t been a friend in a long time, so he’ll be a displeased as he damn well pleases. No one else seems to have registered the exchange, but Hogun is implying a great many things, and Loki likes none of them.  Outwardly, he beams. “Couldn’t have said it better, myself.”                

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

Morning light streams into the royal solar, birdsong drifting through the open windows when Loki makes his way to the breakfast table. Thor is already awake, filling a plate with the various dishes of meats and fruit and breads laid out before him, and he nods to his brother when he pulls out the chair next to him, mumbles a greeting around a mouthful of bacon.

It’s a familiar routine, as if just for a moment today were like any other. Loki rises earlier, but won’t leave his chambers until he feels he’s fully presentable, while Thor rolls out of bed and throws on just enough to be decent, then goes back to his chambers afterwards.  Today, though, presentable won’t be enough, and he’ll have to find time to get **_ready_**.

“Good morning, Your Highnesses,” Loki twists in his seat as Sigyn breezes into the room carrying a serving tray, destined for his parents chambers.

It’s rare, seeing her out of her work clothes. Sigyn’s position in the household is nebulous—she’s about as dressed up as the other ladies of the court are on a typical day, but this would be fine attire for a handmaiden. She’s braided her hair, two braids from the temples that meet in the middle and coil into a bun, the rest falling loose down her back, darker where it’s still wet in the pleats of the braids. The dress is in her favoured colour; she’ll be a drop of sunflower yellow in a sea of gold, today. It’s high enough in the neckline and draped loose enough in the skirts, which fall above her ankles, to allow her to move freely.  She’s traded her usual leather bracelets and glass beads for a few copper bangles.  Loki’s eyes flicker downwards, and— ah. She’s got them polished like new, but her riding boots. All is still right with the world.

“Call me ‘Highness’ while you still can,” Thor says, grinning. “Tomorrow it’ll be ‘Your Majesty.’”

She laughs a little, her tone bright but something off, somehow. “Please be patient with me, Your Highness, it will be a very long habit to break,” and with that, she disappears into his parents suite, reappearing a moment later, tray now empty.

“The Allmother and the Allfa… The Allparents? No, no.” She shuts her eyes and shakes her head, and for a moment she almost seems drunk as she tries to compose herself, but no, he realizes, as he studies her more closely and takes in the dark circles ringing her eyes, the ragged edge to her voice, she’s just so tired she might as well be. “Their Majesties have elected to break their fast in their private chambers,” she says, attempting to mask the unease in her tone, empty serving tray clutched to her chest like armor.

Loki can only think of one reason for that, concern growing, and his fingers start to drum against the wooden table. 

Thor isn’t nearly so discreet, and raises a blond eyebrow. “Father isn’t up yet?”

 “The Allfather is…” She trails off. Loki is certain that the word she needs is _exhausted_ , but she pauses for a moment trying to come up with a more delicate alternative. “…in need of some time to himself, this morning.”      

Thor grins. “Not to worry. He’ll have plenty of time to rest after today. You look rather like you’re about to fall into the Odinsleep yourself, Sigyn.”

“If I do it, it’s just a coma.”   

Thor chuckles to himself, raises his eyebrows. “Late night, Sige? Is Theoric not letting you sleep?”

Loki nearly inhales his toast. 

Sigyn’s response is a nervous chuckle, a demure clearing of her throat, and setting the comment aside without remark. “Eitri, actually. I was sent to meet with him yesterday, and Niðavellir keeps such different hours. It was just before dawn here when I returned, and it seemed silly to go to sleep for such a short time, with so much to do. He had a gift for you— I left it with Thjálfi— and I have… Oh,” she hesitates, reaching for something where her apron would be. “I have no pockets. Apologies, your Highness, I’ll be just a moment to fetch it.”  She begins to hasten away, but Thor holds out the breadbasket in her path, and waves it at her like a needy child.

“Are you heading towards the kitchens?”

If she’s going to her room, then she isn’t. “Of course,” she says, accepting the basket with a tiny dip of a bow before continuing away.

Loki picks at his breakfast, the fingers of his other hand still beating a staccato pattern. It shouldn’t, anymore, but it still needles at him. “You shouldn’t do that,” he says, knowing already how pointless it will be, in more ways than one. “Order her like that,” he continues when Thor just raises an eyebrow, “she isn’t your maidservant.”  

“In the most literal possible sense, she is,” he replies, brow furrowed in confusion.  “Well, Mother’s servant, really, but she doesn’t mind. Do you **_not_** borrow her when you need something?”

“She used to be your friend.” Clearly, he’s the only one who remembers this, because she’ll be standing with the Vanir during the ceremony and not on the step beside Sif.

“She **_is_** my friend,” Thor says around a mouthful of egg, and swallows hard. “Just one whose job it is to bring me bread when I ask for it.” 

Sigyn reappears too quickly to have made the trip at a walking pace, a full basket of rolls in one hand and a letter in the other. She sets the rolls on the table, and offers the letter, closed with a huge wax seal, to Thor. “The message itself is in that letter. I took dictation, so any mistakes are mine.” The letter would have to be immense otherwise, or written under a magnifying glass, and he amuses himself by imagining it: Eitri labouring over a note as he might some delicate jewelry. “His Ma—“ she covers her mouth as a yawn creeps up on her, “—please excuse me— His Majesty, King Eitri, wanted me to impart that he’s very proud of you, his heartfelt well-wishes, and his sincere regrets that he could not be here in person on this auspicious day, because… well, accommodations would be…. difficult.”

Loki lets out a soft puff of airy laughter, spearing a berry on his fork. “Are those wishes for my brother, or his hammer, I wonder?” He says it almost entirely to himself, which is why it’s such a shock when she not only responds, but **_laughs_**.

“A little of both, I think,” she whispers to him, and then to Thor again, “If it’s not too bold of me to suggest, your Highness might way to visit Niðavellir as soon as he is able. Eitri would like to see you, and they’re always so excited when one of their works comes back to visit.”

Thor laughs, but Loki’s still left in shock. She’ll always respond if spoken to, but reluctantly, and as little as possible. He sits up in his seat, decides to test this again, make sure it wasn’t a chance occurrence.  “How was your visit?”

“Niðavellir is always lovely,” she replies, content. As if she were speaking to anyone. “I think dwarves find me hilarious, because I’m like you, but even **_smaller_**. It was a nice change of pace from all the planning around today.”

Thor scoffs, popping a bit of potato into his mouth. “How hard can it possibly be? Have food, have drink, invite people? Done.”

“Well, I mean, you have to keep the delegations from Alfheim and Nornheim from spending too much time together or there’s going to be conflict… and certain factions of Ljósálfar  get along better than others, and if the Vanir are too far from the high table, they’re going to feel slighted, and there are a few families you need to seat far enough apart, or as **_soon_** as the drinking starts—”

A little smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and he ventures, “And the fellow with the battleaxe will only drink mead, and he isn’t beside the one with the halberd…”  

“So when you take the Ylfings to their seats, you have to bring the Hundings **_back_** with you,” she stifles another giggle. “You’ve made seating arrangements before, your Highness?” She’s barely able to keep her eyes open, but her smile is still like sunlight, and he’s left blinking stupidly in its long-forgotten warmth.

His attention is suddenly drawn back to his brother, beside him. “Sounds tedious,” he says as he tears off a chunk of bread. He grins around it, stifling a laugh at some thought he finds uproariously funny and finally manages, “should I have troubles with diplomacy, perhaps I’ll consult you.”

Loki shoots his brother a pointed look, but he doesn’t notice it. Sigyn, for her part, hesitates for a moment but doesn’t seem to have taken any offence.

“Her Majesty does that sometimes,” Sigyn replies, with a retiring little shrug. “When she wants a common perspective on a matter, she’ll ask me.”

Thor lets out another bark of laughter, then drains the contents of the tankard in front of him before getting to his feet and excusing himself back to his rooms, leaving the table. He tosses his chair back, casually, and takes no notice as it sends his still-laden plate and a bowl of fruit tipping over the edge. Sigyn can’t reach it in time, Loki only notices as it’s falling, and they both cringe at the sound of the ceramic shattering against the floor.

“Our new King,” Loki remarks dryly resting his head against his hand, propped up on the table. “He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s nervous.”

Sigyn takes the tray from where she’d left it on the table and starts clearing the dishes there. “Sometimes, in accounting for windage, we aim too far in the other direction.”

“That’s an awfully diplomatic way to say he’s been insufferable for weeks,” Loki mutters. He’s been caught between cautious enthusiasm and outright dismay since the preparations began. Its still surreal that Sigyn’s speaking to him like she used to, so perhaps he falls to easily into old patterns, says too much. He used to tell her everything, and there’s a small fragile part of him that remembers how good it felt. “What if this is just the way he is, now?”

“I anticipate some growing pains, to be sure,” she says, voice still touched by sleep, “but he won’t be alone. He’ll still have his parents to guide him, his friends, his brother…”

That might be a comfort, if Thor were capable of listening to anyone. 

This isn’t a line of questioning he should dwell on further. He shifts, rests his chin against his hand, and inclines his head, coy, now, rather than longsuffering. “The homage gift from Eitri. What is it? The suspense is killing me.” 

“New helm,” she says, stifling another yawn.

“Ah. And how is it?”

“Well Eitri made is, so the quality goes without saying. He has a firm grasp of Thor’s tastes, shall we say.” 

“Feathers, then,” he smirks, already imagining all the fun he can have with that, “he did **_so_** want to be Valkyrie.”  Sigyn answers with a fond smile at the memories of their time together as children, his brother after her mother constantly for stories of war and glory. “And you just let him go on about it.”

“I couldn’t bear to discourage him,” she admits, as she clears the last empty dish from the table. “He was just so excited by it. Sif, I think was always rather impressed that he didn’t seem to notice anything unusual about their names in the stories. Mum though, she found it hilarious.” Sigyn sets the tray of dishes down, and kneels, very careful of her dress, to start on the broken pieces and spilled food.

He notices then, the ornament holding her braid in it’s coil. It’s the only thing of gold he’s ever seen her wear: an old hairpin, delicately curved, in the shape of a row of flowers.  

Loki watches, for only a moment, before he’s overcome by the desire to do something he shouldn’t. Maybe it’s the stress of the coming day, but a kind of quiet madness overtakes him, one that says, _if not now, when?_   Loki slips from his seat and kneels across from her.

“Oh!” she shakes her head when she sees him, holding a hand out urgently, “Please, your Highness, don’t trouble yourself with this—“

Loki waves his hand over the mess, and lets his magic spill from his fingers. It’s a simple trick for a spellcaster of his caliber, but both the detail and the drastic changes needed make it an interesting exercise. He shapes it with his will, coaxes each piece to rearrange itself, and the pile of breakfast food and broken porcelain resolves itself into a spray of fresh cut flowers.

She lets out soft gasp, and then another trill of laughter. “Impressive,” she says, as she sweeps them easily into the tray with her hand. He plucks one from the bunch before she can take it away, a daisy, and twirls it in his fingers, contemplating his work.

“Not bad,” he offers her his other hand and helps her to her feet. He doesn’t let go, and she doesn’t pull away, so there they stand, face to face, closer than she’s let him in a very, very long time, her hand in his.   

He’s now certain that he’s taken leave of his senses entirely.

“Hmm,” he looks her up and down, inclining his head playfully, as though deep in thought. “It’s missing something.” She blinks in surprise when he reaches towards her, but doesn’t back away, and lets him tuck the flower into the braid just behind her ear. He’d be lying if he said his thumb didn’t linger at her cheek for a moment on the way by. “There,” he says, softly “perfect.”

A sly smile creeps across her face, and she lets out another sleepy laugh, before meeting his eye again. “And in a few hours, when I’m showing the Vanir to their place before the ceremony… Is this suddenly going to turn back into a piece of toast?”

“Damn.” He says through his smile, and the grin grows wider, his heart flutters in his chest. “It was a strip of bacon.”

“Oh that’s much worse,” she nods appreciatively, laughter in her voice like song, “woven in there, it would stay, wouldn’t it?”

Loki has never been able to resent her the way he should, because that would be admitting that her affections were truly lost and not merely misplaced. As though he hoped that one day he’d find them behind a bookcase and things would go back to the way they had been. 

There’s a moment, looking into her eyes, her hand still warm in his own, that he foolishly believes this might be that day— but then Sigyn’s eyes clear like a spell lifting, and she takes a startled step back, like she’s finally awake enough to recognize him.

 “I… I should be going,” her eyes find the floor and she brushes the flower from her hair, lets it fall into the tray at her hip with the others. “Thank you for your help, your Highness.”

He feels as though he’s been doused in cold water, the flowers return to their true state, his mouth working uselessly as he tries to find the right words and can’t even begin to imagine what he was hoping to achieve.

“Well, someone’s certainly ready early.”

Her eyes widen, fixed past him, and she drops into a curtsy. “Good Morning, Your Majesty. I wasn’t sure when I would find the time again today.”

His mother has appeared in her doorway, wrapped in a dressing gown, and her eyes pass back and forth between them, expression indecipherable.  “Come here,” she says finally waving her over, “let me see you.”

“Is… is this too much? I feel silly,” Sigyn obliges, shifting restlessly as Frigga’s appraising gaze passes over her, and she hums when she reaches her boots. “I… I’ll borrow something.” 

Sigyn exists apart from the rest of the Queen’s attendants, never quite welcome among the young highborn ásynjur who are her Ladies-in-waiting, peripheral— but his mother has always had a deep fondness for outcasts and misfits.

Frigga’s brow furrows as she studies her, underdressed for the station she’s never quite realized she has, but she smiles, eyes warm. “You look lovely,” his mother’s gaze darts to him for a moment and he’s terrified that she’s going to ask for his agreement, but she says nothing.  

Sigyn ducks her head, “I take comfort in knowing that no one’s going to be looking at me, today.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” the Queen replies with a cunning smile, and Sigyn lets out a slow breath, nodding.

“I… I should go see if Theoric’s awake yet.” His mother excuses her, lets her know when to return to help with her gown and hair, and Sigyn turns to leave with a short bow.

“Sigyn, wait.” He’s as surprised as she is when the words leave his mouth, and she freezes, turning back towards him. Loki plucks an apple from the bowl still on the table. His fingertips brush a bright green one but he reconsiders, taking up another in her yellow and tossing it to her. She catches it in her free hand. “Keep your strength up. It might be a long day.” She thanks him, that same silent, frightened-animal panic in her eyes, and disappears down the hall.    

“That clip doesn’t go with anything else she’s wearing,” his mother muses with a sigh, shaking her head, “but she’s just so fond of it. She was very grateful to me for it, which is strange, because I don’t remember giving it to her.”

He smiles, bitterly. “It must have slipped your mind,” he thinks of sitting again, but the food on his plate doesn’t interest him anymore. “You are very generous.”

“Loki,” she says, pretense gone and pity in her eyes as she looks at him, “still?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” He’s desperate to get out of this room, and grabs the green apple from the bowl before making for the hallway.

“You know…” his mother begins, her voice deceptively casual, “the Vanir are stating another week after the coronation. When they leave, he’s planning to ask her to come back with him.”

Loki stops in the doorframe. “For how long?”

“I believe that will be the question.”

He pauses a moment, the apple spinning absently between his fingers.  The thought has crossed his mind. He could devise a thousand ways to get rid of Theoric— he’s likely too boring to lure into scandal— but he could **_be_** Theoric, make him do whatever he wanted. Of course, there are the darker, more permanent means, but those he entertains fleetingly, only in jest.

It’s telling that none of those solutions could ever be ‘tempt Sigyn away from him.’

If he were Theoric for a while, she might smile at him again.

“You want her to stay?”

“I want her to be happy,” his mother replies innocently.

He should be used to disappointment by now. Perhaps that’s not the right word, but he can’t think of a better one for the process of having his most foolish hopes stripped away, the quiet ones locked deep, deep in his heart that are too absurd to consider but too dear to abandon— things he longs for meant for better men. Reality, perhaps. It’s a bitter draught, and as of late, his cup never seems to run empty.

“Well then,” he turns to her with his best smile, before taking his leave, “all my best to the happy couple. You’ll forgive me if I don’t attend, when the time comes. I’ve never been to a dull Vanir wedding, but I’ve the utmost faith that Theoric will manage it.”

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

He takes the path down the rainbow bridge slowly, Sinir at a walk, leading Gullfaxi behind him, and returns to the palace long after the others.

He’s tempted to stable Sinir himself, just to put off the inevitable, but there’s a crowd of onlookers gathered by the palace steps, and a pair of attendants are ready when he dismounts. Logically, Loki knows he should seek out his mother, but he’s not ready for that, yet. A guard, nearby when the other warriors had hastened past with Fandral draped over their shoulders, directs him to the sitting room near the infirmary where the healers have bid them wait. 

A roaring fire burns in the central hearth, and between the dismal looks and lack of confusion when he arrives alone, they already know. They’ve shed their armor. Hogun carefully arranges healing stones into the coals, Volstagg winces, as he tries to clean the blackened flesh at his arm and Sif furiously paces the length of the room. She looks up when he enters, strides towards him, her gaze intense. He takes an involuntary space back. “Loki! What **_happened_**?” she demands. 

“I tried to calm things,” he’s able to say honestly, shaking his head. He sounds preoccupied, and even as he hears it, he’s not able to clear his head. “You didn’t see him, Sif; there was no reasoning with him. Neither would listen to me.” _Neither ever has._ There’s this horrifying certainty taking root in his heart, creeping like ice across still water. Loki moves too close to the fire, tells himself how comforting it will feel after being so cold in Jötunheim.

It isn’t. He wasn’t.

It was uncomfortable, certainly, but he's never found it debilitating, never felt his muscles seize or his body double over, never been drawn so tight by it that he shakes, violently, as others do. He’d never thought anything of it.

_Mother always says I run cool._

He’s shivering now, though, and tries to steady his trembling hands. He can’t stop rubbing at his left wrist, staring at it. It looks normal, feels normal, but a sense of dread grips him nonetheless. **_That_** feels cold.

The fire’s stifling, filling his lungs and stinging his eyes, and he turns from it, takes a few steps back from the center of the room, away from the hearth and away from the others.

How sweet it would be to heed his racing mind’s pleas to look away from the horrible truth, to write it all off as a trick of the light, as some Jotun magic user’s cruel artifice, to surrender to something as sweet as denial.

He knows what he saw, what he **_felt_**.  

He thinks Sif may be trying to speak to him, but he isn’t listening. She sounds far away, they all do as they talk amongst themselves, and he’s only vaguely aware of someone else entering the room when Sigyn sidles in with a serving tray laden with heavy, steaming goblets, the rich spice smell of mulled wine drifting through the air.

“If I may…” she approached them carefully, an unsteady smile failing to disguise worry.  “I thought perhaps something warm? Here,” she sets on the arm of one of the cushioned benches arranged around the fire, then by the edge of the fireplace. “For Sif, for you, Hogun,” another quick step takes her to the next bench, “Volstagg... One for Fandral, when the healers return him, and—” she sets the drinks down by Volstagg’s seat and stops a few paces from Loki, her hand hesitating over the drinks left on the tray. Two of them.

 “ _Oh_ ,” a little sound, as though she’d been struck, like the wind’s been knocked from her chest. She can’t met his eye, and it’s just as well. “I…  habit— forgive me—”

“One for you, Sigyn,” Sif says before she can agonize over it further, taking a seat by the fire. “Come, sit with us while we wait.” When he doesn’t accept the drink, she sets it down on the nearest surface, the edge of the firepit, and retreats as if she thinks he might bite her.  It’s only as she’s leaving that her actually takes in her strange appearance. Her boots are caked in mud, the hem of her dress ragged and dirtied, a tear through a thin outer layer of yellow fabric slashed into the skirts that pulls up to the bodice, revealing the paler material underneath. He notes it, as numbly as he takes in everything else. 

“What happened to **_you_**?” Volstagg raises an eyebrow as he notes the state she’s in.

“It’s… well, it’s not nearly as urgent a story as yours. It’s just been a bit— here,” she says as she takes a seat beside Volstagg, and takes the supplies from him “—hectic, is all. I let Hildegund know you were all right. She’s gone to take your little ones to your neighbours, then she’ll be right here to see you.”  He thanks her, and hisses as she directs her attention to his wound. “What… what is this?” she puzzles over it as she wets the cloth more thoroughly from the bottle the healers had left him.

“One of the fell creatures **_touched_** me,” he laments.  Loki’s grip on his unscathed wrist tightens.

She lets out a soft hum, considering the frostbitten skin, when another sound from the doorway catches the group’s attention.  A distressed Theoric excuses himself as he takes a step into the room, paused in the doorway, his olive skin pallid and his voice strained. “Sigyn, may I have a word with you?”

"Of course,” she replies, and waits, still gently trying to lift the dirt and debris of the rent Jotun cliffside from Volstagg's wounds.

 “Alone,” Theoric adds, his composure waning.

“Oh! Oh, certainly. I’ll be just a—“

“ ** _Now_** , Sigyn.” He seems to regret the sharp tone as it echoes in the tense silence that follows.  If he’s going to berate her, he’s chosen a poor place to do it. Volstagg furrows his brows, and the stare Sif levels at him is deadly. “Please,” he says after a weary sigh, his tone far softer as he steps into the room properly, and starts towards her. 

Sigyn leaves her drink to Volstagg, and he drains what’s left of his own in a long gulp before gladly taking another. “The stones will be ready very soon,” Hogun assures her as she stands, prodding at the flames.

Theoric meets her halfway through the room, resting a hand in the small of her back to shepherd her towards the door. He gives her a little nudge towards it as he breaks with her for a moment, stopping by Hogun on his way out. There’s a brief exchange, and they’ve deliberately suppressed the magic of the Allspeak, because while their voices are too low to make out the words, he still recognizes the rising and falling notes of Vanir.  Theoric’s expression is still drawn as he nods and catches back up to Sigyn, his hand slipping back to its place at her waist as he hastens her from the chamber with a sweep of his crimson cloak.

It’s not long after, their dazed silence resumed, when one of healers helps Fandral back into the room, exhausted, but whole, and there’s a collective sigh of relief from Sif and the other two-of-three. His chest is bare, and there’s no sign left of the wound that nearly ended him. Fandral slips from his seat on the couch to sit even closer to the fire. “Is one of those for me?” he asks, head tipped back against the couch cushion, eyeing Sif’s drink.

“Sige didn’t leave one for you,” Volstagg says as he starts on the glass that had been specifically intended for Fandral, “shouldn’t be drinking wine in your condition.”

“Loki?” Hogun indicates the goblet he’s left untouched by the fire. He waves it away, and Hogun hands the drink to Fandral, who takes a deep gulp and sighs contentedly as the warmth fills his chest. The healing stones are ready, and Hogun sets to crushing them, still aglow with firelight, over Volstagg’s arm as his friends— his brother’s friends, he’s soon reminded, always Thor’s friends— begin to talk amongst themselves again.

And then, demanding. Loki, go to the Allfather, change his mind. As if he would want to. As if he **_could_**.

His head is spinning with too many thoughts at once, stomach lurching as though he’s in freefall. There’s guilt there, clawing at his chest. He professes to love his brother, and it’s the truth—a complicated truth— but not a lie.  He’s the one who let those… his stomach churns again— those **_monsters_** into the vault. He’s the one who goaded Thor into the trip to Jötunheim, knowing full well he couldn’t resist.  They were never supposed to get past Heimdall. He hadn’t meant for any of this.

_Know your place, Brother._

But he isn’t the one that nearly got them all killed, today. Loki is the only reason any of them still draw breath, Thor included, and Thor’s friends have the nerve to rebuke him for it.

Mingled with the guilt is a growing conviction: all he did was allow Thor an opportunity to show his true colours. He was tested, and he failed, again, and again. But still, they’re all desperate for Loki to find some way to bring Thor back to them. And for what? So they can make him king? So he can throw Asgard into another war, spill Aesir blood across a frozen wasteland, and any other battlefield he might encounter, because their precious heir apparent can’t rise above a single insult?  

_When I’m king, I’ll hunt the monsters down, and slay them all._

His fingers keep tracing the lines of his palm, all still familiar, no sign of those markings he’d seen etched into the back of his hand.   

He refuses them, and there’s bile rising in his throat as he stalks away, straight towards the only thing that might confirm the suspicion flooding dread into his heart. 

He strides through the palace, taking little-used corridors and cloaking himself in concealment magic to avoid any prying eyes as he makes his way with single-minded intensity. It’s a voice drifting from down the hall that manages to pierce the fog he’s in, and he recognizes it immediately. The reply, too, is familiar, the sound of their voices just shy of an argument.  He stops, creeps closer to make out the words.

“Theoric, I appreciate it, but—”

When he peeks into the abandoned banquet hall, broken dishware and a few missed apples and dinner rolls still littering the floor from his brother’s earlier tantrum, Theoric is just taking Sigyn’s hands into his own. “I know this is sudden,” he says before she can finish, “but please reconsider. **_Frost giants_** , Sigyn. Don’t pretend you aren’t afraid.”

“I am… alarmed, certainly, but—”

“It’s not safe for you, here. Asgard isn’t safe. With Thor banished and the Allfather on the verge of collapse, what’s left to defend it?”

“ ** _Frigga_** ,” she replies immediately.

Loki should probably be offended, but it’s the first time he’s felt himself smile in hours. He’s crept into the room itself, concealed in the shadow of a column along the balcony edge of the room, the evening air at his back.

He sees Theoric shift, shaking his head. “The throne has naught left to it but fragile spellcasters.”

“Frigga has always acted as Queen Regent when the Allfather was indisposed, and Asgard was never better.”     

It isn’t the Allmother he’s objecting to. “And then?” he asks, letting the question hang in the air.

Loki’s heart hammers at his ribs, so hard he fears it may give away his position. He’s both certain it’s time for him to leave, but desperate to hear her answer— but she doesn't, not directly. She straightens, draws herself up to her full height, still well below Theoric’s, her brows furrowed slightly. “I thought the Vanir prized their magic.”  

“We do,” he replies, in the way one might explain something painfully simple to an especially slow child. Though his back is to him, Loki can practically hear Theoric roll his dark eyes. “But you stick them in a coven somewhere and consult them when you need something. You don’t put them on the **_throne_**. Especially not—” Loki wonders which of the familiar barbs is coming; it doesn’t matter, he knows his reputation, he’s heard them all before. “Sigyn,” Theoric sighs again, “he’s a **_witch_**.” Ah. Not particularly creative, but points awarded for dusting off such a classic.

“Have you not learned things from your mother? I know mine certainly wasn’t concerned with what was, or was not ‘Women’s work’.” She looks up at him, her expression patient but firm, and whatever he sees there causes him to leave the thought unchallenged. “My Queen is beside herself in grief for her lost son,” she insists after the resulting silence, “if there’s anything I can do to be of help to her—”

“Your loyalty to her is admirable, but just look at you,” one of his hands leaves hers, finds the slash through the outer layer of the dress.  “Come home with me,” Theoric begins, like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse, the same hand drifting up to her cheek. “Do you not think the Allmother can make do without one of her Handmaidens?” That gives her pause. Her expression softens, her gaze falls from his as she lets out a long, thoughtful sigh. Theoric seems to take her sudden quiet as compliance, and he beams. “We leave at once. You’ll love Vanaheim. It’s peaceful, there. You’ll be safe. Far from this absolute madhouse.” 

He starts towards the door, but stops when he reaches the length of her arm and she doesn’t move with him. Her eyes are still downcast, but she shifts, examining her muddied boots. The fingers of her free hand grasp the ripped edge of her dress, and when she raises her eyes, that gentle fire has returned to them.

“This madhouse is my home,” she tells him, certainty creeping back into her posture, her voice. Her tone is resolute but her smile is apologetic. “Safe journey, Theoric.” 

His face falls, eyebrows pulling together as he studies her for a moment, waiting for her to reconsider, but finally he sighs. She’s startled when he steps closer, leaning in, the hand on her cheek trailing down to lift her chin, and—

It’s been… a diversion, to be sure, a confused kind of warmth pooling in his chest, a welcome relief from his own problems, because even when the direction of the conversation made his heart sink, it was no more than he’d already expected. He’s been able to justify his prying thus far, but both propriety and the sick feeling it leaves say this is too far. He means to turn away, but before he can, a quick, and **_very_** familiar motion brings her in too close, inside of Theoric’s guard. His mother has been teaching her more than diplomacy— it’s the perfect striking distance if she had wanted to throw her elbow into his throat. She opts for a hug instead, tucking herself against his chest.

He’s surprised by it, but finally nods, resigned, and when he steps back, he raises the hand he still holds to his lips, pressing a kiss just behind her knuckles. “Take care, Sigyn.” And with one last sweep of his thumb across her fingers, he turns for the door and disappears down the hallway.

Sigyn lets out a long breath, face buried in her hands, as she leans against the now-righted banquet table. He should leave, now. He doesn’t.

Loki takes a breath, calls upon his magic, and steps into view, lit by the braziers around the room, and the faint lights of the city beyond the balcony. “If he’s so concerned, he’s welcome to stay and defend you himself,” he says in his stolen voice.

Sigyn starts, her hands falling away from her face, and she leaps to her feet. “Fandral!”

He’s about to say something more, but Loki freezes as Sigyn runs to him, and throws her arms around his neck. His brain screeches to a grinding halt. Oh.

He hadn’t expected that.

“You’re alright,” she breathes as she rests against him, suddenly jerking away in a panic. “Oh— oh, which side was it, am I hurting you?”

“No harm done, Sige,” he assures her, trying to act like casual, confident Fandral, and not a startled deer as he lets his hands settle on her back. As though a particularly affectionate and strictly platonic friend has pulled him into an embrace, as she is wont to do, and not like his heart may give out. Despite his brain’s instructions, his body still elects to hold her more tightly than he should— hopefully, she’ll attribute it to near-death jitters, and not… well, whatever this is possessing him. “Healers fixed me up, right as rain— unless, of course, you could be persuaded to kiss it better? In which case—” he winces, groans, and rolls his shoulder.

Sigyn gives him a longsuffering smile, and his cheek a friendly pat. “Oh good; you’re fine.”

“Sorry to have been eavesdropping, Sige. Just… wanted to be sure you had a friend on standby if he didn’t like your answer.”

“I appreciate it, but you needn’t have worried. Theoric’s a lamb.”

He shrugs. “Can’t be too careful. Some men only show their true nature when you tell them ‘no.’” She sighs, again, looking out over the darkening city, the evening breeze stirring her hair. There’s an inexplicable bit of hay caught in it. In the distance, the Rainbow Bridge lights and dims, again, and again as the ceremony’s foreign guests make their way home. “It’s not too late, you know,” he’s compelled to tell her, gently. “Go to him, if it’s what you want. Not to understate your importance, Sige, but no one here would ever stand in the way of your happiness. The Allmother least of all.” 

The smile she gives him in reply is sad as she shakes her head. “My heart is here. Besides… I think Theoric saw a little too much of my ‘true nature,’ today, and I’m not sure he liked it.”

There’s been a lot of that going around. He quirks an eyebrow, quickly looking her up and down, before gently plucking the strand of the hay from her hair. “Does it have something to do with this?”  

She nods. “When we finally realized **_where you’d gone_** ,” she pauses to shoot him a reproachful look, “I… well. I took the most direct route possible from the Allmother’s balcony to the stables.”

He thinks, for a moment, mentally tracing a path through the palace, but he takes in her disheveled appearance, and the guilty shrug of her shoulder, and can’t help but chuckle when he realizes her meaning. “ ** _Oh,_** ” his eyebrows rise towards his hairline. “And again on my behalf. I really must be more careful.”

 “Poor Theoric was… shocked.” she admits with a rueful laugh of her own, as she glances down at her ruined clothing, scuffs one of her muddied riding boots against the floor. “It was stupid, but I was terrified, and…well, you know how I overreact…”

“Sige,” he starts, voice suddenly grim, his hands moving carefully to grasp her bare arms as he leans back to better look her in the eye. “I literally cannot stress to you how close we all were to oblivion. Your haste may well have saved our lives.”

He’s been desperately trying to think of anything but Jötunheim, but just mentioning it is enough to put him back on that cliffside— the wind howling in his ears, the pit in his stomach of certain doom as the Jotnar closed in, and the deep piercing horror he’d already been trying to ignore—

_Don’t let them touch you!_

He lets go of her, abruptly, taking a step backwards that sends him against the column. He eyes the place on her upper arms where his hands had rested, for a moment expecting black frostbite. There’s nothing. The momentary spike in his heart rate abates, but he seems to have largely kept the panic from his expression— plays it off as the embrace running its course.    

The praise doesn’t make her happy, only serves to remind her of all the day’s troubles. She was already exhausted that morning and the day has only worn on, concern and fatigue filling her eyes, her brows pulling together. She sighs, shakes her head. “Next time you’re going to do something foolhardy, please tell me so I can at least **_try_** to talk you out of it? Sneak you more provisions, at the very least.” 

He smiles, regretfully. “Now, Sige, you know we’d never involve you in anything untoward— the position that would put you in. And trust me, we tried. I tried, Sif tried, **_Loki_** tried, nothing. There was no getting through to him, you know how Thor gets.” He starts down the stairs, motioning for her to follow, makes his way over to one of the undisturbed tables that hadn’t been cleared.  “And then again. Sif wanted to leave, Loki wanted to leave, and I was bleeding to death, so I don’t remember this part myself, but I **_assume_** I wanted to leave— flat-out refused, the stubborn…” he shakes his head, taking up a bottle of wine left there, and searching for something to uncork it. Of course, he has sharp implements aplenty, but Fandral generally doesn’t, Fimbuldraugr aside.

“Here.” When he looks up, Sigyn is offering him a slender hunting knife.

He thanks her as he accepts it, and pries the bottle open. “You know, Theoric may not appreciate that sort of thing,” he tells her as he hands it back to her and she returns it to its sheath in her boot, “but I assure you, there are men who do.” She smiles for a moment, but then the worried look is back, everything still weighing on her.  

He sighs, pours a glass of wine, then another, from the settings left out on the table. “You’re not going to make me drink alone, are you?”

“I really shouldn’t.”

“Do you want to?”

Sigyn accept the glass with a weary nod of her head, and immediately takes a sip.

“Ah, where was I? Oh. Yes, we were about to leave, then one insulted Thor, and all Hel broke loose. The next thing I know, I’m impaled, being hauled over unforgiving icy wasteland chased by a beast larger than most houses, and we’re trapped at a cliff surrounded by hundreds of Frost Giants with bloody Laufey himself in the lead.” 

The effect this has on her doesn’t escape his notice. Sigyn shrinks into herself a little, one arm hugging the other tight to her body as she downs a much larger gulp of wine. “It sounds as though you were very nearly Fandral the Dashed,” she says into her glass, eyes wide.

Loki wasn’t prepared for that, and the startled laughter that escapes is very nearly his own. He manages to reign it in— _Fandral,_ he reminds himself, _you’re Fandral— haughty, theatrical, from the chest,_ and turns the mischievous titter into a single deep bark of a laugh.

“I’m sorry, it’s only because you’re alright, I… I’m not funny—“

“You’re hilarious. Theoric’s an idiot, don’t listen to him.”

They sit in silence for a moment, contemplating the contents of their glasses, before she speaks up again. “Did you at least learn anything?”

It’s his turn to take an inadvisably deep draught, if only to avoid the question for a moment longer. “No,” he lies, his mouth going dry, “nothing.” He takes another drink.

“So we’ve still no idea how they got in.” She hums thoughtfully, brows furrowed, and then, “has his Highness not said anything about it?”

The wine goes down the wrong way and he chokes. He can feel the warmth of her hand through his shirt as she rubs circles against his back. “Easy, Fandral, easy.”

“No,” he manages finally, sputtering, voice thick. “Why would he?” He’s fairly sure he knows exactly what she’s thinking, and it’s only deliberate exertion of his will that keeps him from fidgeting. To his relief, she shrugs, but she’s distracted when she replies.

“I’d assume it was some strange magic…. Seems like his area of expertise… But,” she takes another sip, watches the diminishing contents of her glass swirl. “I suppose if Frigga doesn’t know, no one does. Is… Is he alright?” Her eyes dart nervously when he looks over in surprise. “On the way in, Sif said she may have seen one grab at him, and he was worrying his wrist back in the other room.” She grabs at her own, twisting the copper bangles as an example.

It’s only centuries of practice that keeps his expression unchanged, as he gives her a noncommittal shrug of his own. “Possibly? But you know Loki. He was wearing about nine layers of clothing and two of them were leather. He seemed fine to me.”

She nods, staring into the contents of her cup when she speaks again. “And, besides that?”

“Today has been… a lot. He stormed out earlier. Probably going to disappear for a while, as he does.” She makes another pensive little sound, still focused on her drink. “Sigyn, are you all right? I know what you told Theoric, but…” he studies her expression carefully. She’s deep in uneasy thought. “You weren’t too afraid, were you? Because you must know, I— we, your friends, would never let any harm come to you. Especially not at the hands of those…” he swallows down the acid rising in his throat again. “Those **_monsters._** ”

She smiles at him, and it’s painfully familiar. Appreciative, but gently reproachful— _That was unnecessary, but thank you for it anyway._ She takes a deep breath, lets it out as a long sigh. “Did I ever tell you what happened to my father?”

He’s fairly certain everyone in Asgard knows: Helgi Hundingsbane fell in battle with Jötunheim.

“I mean…. What **_happened_** , happened.”

That catches him by surprise, and he quirks an eyebrow. “I didn’t think your mother had told you.”

“She didn’t,” Sigyn pushes off from where she leans against the banquet table, takes a few paces down its length towards the center, one hand still holding the glass, the other still wrapped around herself. “Midwinter, maybe fifty years after I came to work here,” she begins, eyes sweeping the room as she tries to imagine it as it would have been , bustling with guests, overflow from the great hall. “I was pouring mead for some very, very drunk Einherjar, swapping war stories. And one of them,” another breath to steady herself, “starts on about how that poor bastard Helgi got himself frozen solid and shattered into a million pieces.”

Loki feels like he’s going to be sick, suddenly terrified of what will be left when he drops Fandral’s visage. He swallows hard. “Their faces must have been quite something when they realized who you were.”

She shakes her head, the loose curls swaying. “I didn’t, I… Why embarrass them, but mostly, I was afraid they’d stop talking. It was awful, but I wanted to know. He…” she looks so tired, the dark circles ringing her eyes like bruises, her eyelids heavy. Her voice is raspy, with fatigue, emotion, or likely both, just above a whisper. “He thought he saw an opening, took a run at Laufey.”  Something like a smile twitches across her mouth then vanishes. “I imagine that’s why she never told me. Didn’t want to make him more of a bugbear than he already was. They way they tell it, he got **_so_** close. It… it must have seemed worth it, because Mum always said he was the cautious one.”

She steadies herself, eyelashes fluttering. “I don’t… think it’s bragging, because I don’t ascribe any of his heroic traits to myself. It’s just what everyone tells me, that he was one of the greatest warriors of his time. But he was no match for that thing.” That thing. The breath she draws in shudders. “I could have lost all of you, today. Thor **_is_** gone, the Allmother is **_beside herself_** —”  her voice gives out, she sets the glass down on the table behind her to rest her head in her hands again, eyes squeezed shut.

He feels as though that graceful little knife has been driven into his heart, cold steel biting between his ribs. She doesn’t mean to twist it like she does, has no idea she’s doing it.  He’s still afraid to touch her.

“Hey,” he says, moving as close as he dares, “don’t worry too much about Thor, alright? He’s alive, at least, which he very nearly wasn’t, and Midgard is a picnic; he loves it there,” he resists the urge to roll his eyes, “mortals adore him.  He’s probably fighting, and drinking, and doing all manner of other activities not fit for a maiden’s ears as we speak. I doubt he’ll even think to miss us. Perhaps, after a few hundred years, he’ll grow up a little…”

It’s not really a lie. It **_could_** be true. In reality, Thor was currently wearing a paper hospital gown with a needle full of sedative in his backside and was most assuredly not having a good time, but there was no way for Loki to have known that when he said it.

“…but we can’t all just wait around in hopes that he does.”  She nods, miserably, head heavy, eyes slipping shut. He uses the back of Fandral’s gloved hand to nudge her shoulder, rousing her. “Get some sleep, Sige; it’s been a very long day. Rest easy,” he assures her, “you are safe here, I promise you.”

She smiles at him, blinking slowly, a losing battle against her exhaustion. “I should really go see if her Majesty needs anything—“

“In the morning,” he says, lightly nudging her towards the door. She drifts in the indicated direction, beside him. Should he walk her back to her quarters? It’s not far, so he begins in that direction. He’s eager to see her home before something gives him away, and simultaneously dreading their parting. She stops in the hallway at the next junction, one turn leading towards the servants quarters, and gives him a last fond, bittersweet smile, pats him on the shoulder.

“Goodnight, Fandral. You rest up, too.”

His the smile he gives her in return is tight. “I will, just… not quite yet.”

She laughs, a little, likely having a very different idea of how Fandral might want to spend an evening celebrating his newfound health than what Loki is planning. “Alright, well. Do take it easy. If in the course of your revelry you happen to see Sif, please tell her I’m hoping to speak with her tomorrow, and… should his Highness happen to turn up, please let him know his mother is anxious to see him.”  

He tries not to notice it, but he does, the way she names them. Thor is Thor, and then… his highness— not out of respect, but a mental step back she takes to distance herself from him.  Only him.

He promises to pass along the messages, should the opportunity arise, and with a final goodnight, she wanders away towards her rooms, rubbing at her eyes with the heel of her hand.

A quick glance around finds him alone, and he lets his shape fall back to its preferred state. Fandral’s hale complexion slips away, and the tightness in his chest unclenches as he takes in his own long, pale fingers as he studies his hands. It still there, though, the sinking feeling, the compulsion calling him down, down, towards the vault, towards the thing that may well confirm his worst fears. His breath catches as he stands before it.  

Loki stood here, once, a very long time ago. He made a promise then.

He breaks it the moment he lifts the Casket from its plinth.

 

* * * * * * * * *

His suspicions had been so terrible that he hadn’t even considered that the truth could be worse. Has this room always been so warm? So bright? It all makes sense, now. He was a creature born to live in shadow.  So much has begun to makes sense—  terrible, mortifying sense.

He and his mother wait near the door, giving Eir the space to work as she attends to the bed in the center of the chamber.

He can tell from his mother’s face that she has a great deal to say, but not with an audience. Loki, for his part, says nothing, his head spinning, his gaze trained on the floor.  He’s aware of the sounds of quick footsteps, a running pace, down the hallway, but for the second time today can’t bring himself to react when Sigyn hurries into the room and to his mother’s side.

From the looks of her, a dressing gown thrown haphazardly over a casual dress, her boots still unlaced, hair loose and visibly still holding its shape where it dried in her braids that morning, she was either about to, or had just reached, her bed when she heard what had happened. Dead on her feet, her eyes are unfocused as she asks if there’s anything she can do for her Queen.   

Sigyn, daughter of Helgi. Loki, son of…

He can’t breathe, can’t bear to acknowledge her, just works at his hands to make sure they’re still right. It’s absurd, but he’s suddenly certain that if she looks at him now that his magic will somehow fail, that she’ll see him for what he really is. That if their eyes meet, she’ll be looking into those horrific crimson irises that bleed into cloudy crimson sclera. Worse than a monster.

Laufey’s son.

He reels from it like a sentence handed down, a condemnation.

He’s been called many terrible things, and the ones that sting are the ones he knows to be true. Nothing has ever hurt like this, this line of fresh ink struck through his name, through his heart, through his **_self_** — not a change, but a **_correction:_**  Loki Laufeyson.

He hates it. He hates most of all that it’s true, that it’s right in a way Odinson never was.

“I’d like to speak with my mother, alone.” It comes out colder than he intends, an order, but her presence threatens to overwhelm him, and he errs to the side of terse. If he lets any of the maelstrom in his heart into his voice, it may well come out as screaming. His throat is still raw.

 “Oh,” she withdraws, looking equal parts apologetic and anxious. She drops her gaze demurely to the ground. “Of course, forgive me, your Highness, your Majesty. I’ll leave you in peace. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

His mother smiles at her, tucks an errant copper curl behind her ear, a kindly gesture to sooth her frayed nerves, assure her she hasn’t committed any offence. “Get some sleep, Sigyn. I’ll have much for you to do for me tomorrow.”

She’s reassured by the promise of being needed, and excuses herself, to perhaps finally get some rest, just as Eir draws away from the bed. She tells them that the preparations are all ready before leaving, herself, and the Queen and Prince are left alone.

“Loki,” his mother asks, her voice soft but knowing as she smooths down his hair. “What were you doing in the vault?” He says nothing, lets his pallor and the horror swimming in his eyes be her answer. She takes him by the arm, and starts towards the bed where his… where **_Odin_** lies, the golden light of the healer’s magic cast over it like a net to monitor his condition.  “I think it’s high time you and I had a little chat.”

“Yes,” his voice comes out hoarse. “Yes, I think it is.”

He’s flanked by Einherjar when he leaves the room again, already growing accustomed to Gungnir’s weight in his hands. He’d trained with spears, certainly, but never with the serious intention of using one, this one least of all. Despite all Odin’s talk, despite all his hopes, he had always known it would never be him, that it was always going to be Thor. He’d been wrong, though, all those years.

_You’re the spare. The understudy._

He was never even that. Odin’s confession, his true purpose, still rings in his ears. He’d never been second to Thor— he’d never even been in the running.

But it’s fallen to him, anyway, the last man standing, and his mind is already racing with possibilities. How best to prove himself— he cringes, a little at his own choice of words, but **_worthy_** : of the throne, of the respect he’d been denied all these years, of being here, in Asgard. **_These_** are his people, and he can prove it to them, make the Allfather, when he awakens, regret ever even considering sending him back to the creatures that spawned him...   

All he needs is the opportunity, just a little more time with Thor safely out of his way.

He stops without warning, the Einherjar doing the same beside him, as something catches his eye. They’ve passed a sitting area, a few tables and couches set up in what would be a sunny place in daylight, opposite an immense window. A pair of unlaced boots dangle from the settee.

It’s not the first time she’s fallen asleep, here.

She’s either parked herself here in case his mother changed her mind about needing something, or this is simply as far as she made it before sleep overtook her. He smiles a little, despite himself, and motions to one of the guards. “Please see Lady Helgadóttir back to her room. Make sure she actually goes.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” the guard replies, and it’s still satisfying so to hear. He breaks off from the group and Loki hears rather than sees what happens next, attention fixed behind him as he continues down the hallway. The guard nudges her, and she stirs, with a soft, confused sound.

“Can’t have you sleeping in the hallways. King’s orders.”

“Is he up already? That was fast…” She yawns, slowly sits up and gets to her feet. The guard doesn’t correct her, and it’s just as well. It’s likely the only reason she follows along so complacently as he walks her back to her room. Looking back on this moment, he’ll wish he’d done it himself.

He does remember. Even when everything goes wrong, and he’s left scrambling, desperate, all his machinations sent toppling, he still remembers.

His illusory double takes on a familiar form as it makes its way to the servants’ quarters, to the wing where the female staff reside, and nearly stops at the wrong door. She’s moved a few times, since she was a girl, as people came and went. 

“Sige?” He calls in the servant’s voice, as there’s no substance there to rap at the door. There’s a noise from inside, a questioning hum.

“Everything alright?”

 “Yes, just wanted to say goodnight, before turning in.”

The reply that drifts through the door is warm, and fond, sleepy. “Alright. Goodnight, Röskva.” 

He’s confirmed that she’s safe, tucked away here far from the stage he’s set— the last thing he does before confronting Heimdall, and letting Laufey in.

It will be a very, very long time before he hears her voice again.

 

* * *

 

 

2013 AD: Asgard, Dungeon

 

A few days after his trial—calling it a trial is being very generous, it was a public shaming and sentencing— finds him lying in bed staring at nothing.  

He’s been over every inch of this room, the walls, the ceiling, the stupid airlock of a door that his meals come through, and if there were some weakness to exploit, he would have found it by now. He still has his magic, but it’s contained. He can feel the barriers that run through the whole of the outside surface, and he can reach no further.

His mother seems to have no such limitations.

She’d visited him, clandestinely, that first day.  He was less than pleasant and she hasn’t been back since. As much as he tells himself he doesn’t care, there’s a uneasiness growing with each passing day that threatens to unfurl into full-blown panic. She’s the only person that’s ever loved him, and he may well have burned that bridge now, too.  

There are voices carrying from the end of the hall, towards the stairway that leads to the exit. He’s used to filtering out sounds— other prisoners, the guards, but they’re nearly exclusively male, and the higher notes of this voice catch his attention. He’s been imprisoned before, but while the memory is clouded he does remember the feeling of being hopelessly alone. Is this worse, somehow? Everything **_just_** out of his reach?

“They’re just books, sir. You’re welcome to inspect them. I expect you to inspect them.”

Loki sits up, prowls closer to the web of golden light stretched across his cell. He knows that voice, the way she chooses her words.

“Nothing allowed, ‘cept meals and clothes,” growls one of the guards, “Allfather’s orders.”

 “The Allmother thought you might say that. Her Majesty would like to remind you that if her son is not somehow diverted, he’s going to find ways to entertain himself. She invites you to consider what those might be, and whether or not you really want to deal with them.” A beat. “Whatever you’ve imagined, she would like to assure you that he will devise far worse.”  

He can’t help but smirk at that. He’s flooded with relief, and maybe a little flattered.

Loki can hear her but he can’t see her, and paces the length of his cell like a caged animal, trying, to no avail, to get the right vantage point. _Come on, come on,_ he grits his teeth, nails biting into his palms. He’s not sure why he’s so determined, like if he can just get her attention, she’ll have to engage with him.

“Alright,” the guard relents. “Leave them here.” And when he hears footsteps, they’re hurrying away. He curses under his breath, storming back to collapse in his bed, hands over his face as he breathes, lets the frustration ebb. His mother hasn’t forgotten him, that’s all that matters. Even if he did catch her eye, **_then_** what? Sigyn couldn’t even look at him before, and… Well, she must know, now. He imagines everyone does. What he did, what he **_is._**

The books arrive with his next meal. He’s desperate for something to do and fears he may go mad otherwise, but there’s a part of him that insists he refuse them out of stubborn pride. And he does, for… months? Years? What difference does it really make? The days blur together and he loses track of time, his Mother’s visits the only shining points of interest in a sea of grey monotony.

Still, the stack of books sits, defiant, untouched. He refuses to be content in captivity.

He eats, at least, which pleases her, and more often than he would expect he finds the meal delivered to be something he’s mentioned to her. He’d considered it, refusing food and drink to make some kind of point, but he remembers starvation, the way he remembers everything from that hazy nightmare, the clawing of his empty stomach, the way it made his head spin, and it calls upon a deep, animal panic that he cannot overrule. All it would do is leave him feeble, and stupid, and he needs his mind sharp if he’s ever going to get out.

He finds other ways to entertain himself in the meantime. There aren’t many prisoners, initially, but the cells fill with marauders as his brother’s righteous quest to right all that goes wrong in the Nine realms progresses. They come, and they leave— executed or extradited, he’d imagine. They’re something to focus on, at least. From what he gleans eavesdropping, they’re mostly quite boring, and he finds himself assigning them names, and characters, and weaving complicated fictions of the drama that passes in their shared cells. It’s the most fun he’s had in a long time, until he recognizes what it is he’s doing and turns away from the game in revulsion.

( _“What about this one?”_

_The young ásynja studies the glossy black warhorse, sinking a tooth into her lip in thought. “Cricket,” she pronounces with a decisive nod._

_“And him?”_

_The next stall houses one of the immense Vanir carthorses, red brown with legs like tree trunks. “Cedar.”_

_“And…?”_

_He indicates across the aisle, and she has to pad across the way to peer over the half-door on her tip-toes to even see the little dun pony, placidly munching away at a trough of hay. She considers him for a moment, face deadly serious. “Bloody-hoof,” she says, with the same certainty, “devourer of souls.” She manages to hold the somber expression for a moment, but when he smiles, she loses her composure and they both double over cackling._

_When it’s his turn, they’re all filthy double-entendres, and through she pretends not to understand them, he derives a great sense of achievement from the colour rising in her cheeks.)_

He seems to be the only permanent resident. He knows Lorelei’s around somewhere, and if he can only figure out how to antagonize her from his cell, he’ll never want for entertainment. Still, the stack of books tempts him as it gathers dust along the wall, calling to him like water in the desert.

“The books I sent— do they not interest you?” his mother finally asks, after they sat unacknowledged for every visit before. When her image melts away into the brilliant light of her magic, his own fury still rings in his ears. He’s left feeling hollow, bitter remorse seeping into the void.   _You’re not._ He wishes he hadn’t said it, but not as ardently as he wishes it weren’t true.

Frigga’s visits are the only thing he has to look forward to for the rest of his very, very long natural life, and somehow the conversation always turns to Thor, to Odin, and he can’t keep his resentment from poisoning his words. Loki sighs, a long weary puff of air. He’s too proud to apologize outright, but he makes a mental note to be better, next time, and considers some other way he might let her know he’s trying. His eyes fall upon the long abandoned stack of books. It’s so terribly ungrateful to refuse a gift.   

He kneels beside the pile, lets his fingers dance over the dusty spines as he finally considers each in turn. They’re thoughtful choices— favourites from the collection it pains him to imagine abandoned in his chambers: histories, a few plays, a collections of essays, and—

The last book stops him dead in his tracks, and he quickly yanks it from the bottom of the stack. This one is not from his bookshelf. He knows exactly where this book has lived for the past thousand years, and has a few theories as to how it may have come to be here. He takes it back to a chair he’s not certain he’s ever actually used, and gently eases the worn spine open. It’s exactly what he thought it was.

He pours over the first few sections in seconds, and stops himself. He could read this entire book cover to cover within the hour, if he continued, but if he’s trying to stave off boredom, he needs to slow his pace, to—

_I’m savouring it. You read like Volstagg eats._

—ration the passages. He rereads them at a more leisurely rate, a smile brewing, the occasional chuckle bubbling to the surface. He snaps it shut and tucks it away with his magic to keep from devouring it in one sitting.

All Hel breaks loose later that day, or, more accurately, everyone but Loki breaks loose.  It seems as good time as any to pull it back out as the Einherjar struggle to recapture the prisoners. He places himself beside the window to best observe the chaos, while casually perusing the next entries, if only to pretend he doesn’t notice when Fandral and Volstagg fight their way through the tumult and like he doesn’t feel the electric crackle prickling at his skin when Thor arrives.  

Loki is both baffled and thrilled at the book, and it’s provenance, somehow the thing he’s found most diverting and heartening since his confinement began. Norns, how he’s missed reading: letting his eyes trail over the lines, the way he can’t keep his nose from crinkling at certain passages, even the familiar, reassuring smell of old paper, of so many contented childhood hours spent sprawled in a sunbeam on the library floor, a tome laid out before him.

He’s still reading it when the Einherjar guard comes to him, helm tucked under his arm.

He tears it to pieces.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I saw Endgame. Whoo boy. 
> 
> In that one deleted scene, does anyone else think that Loki's talking about that helmet like he's never seen it before? 
> 
> This chapter is mostly a fun game I like to call spot the references to the creepy-ass og thor comics which.... no way, were published in 1989????? Holy shit I thought that would be way older. oooooh my god. 
> 
> It should be a very, very long time before I get to anything like Endgame content, probably the last 2-3 chapters. I had a few endings planned out based on certain likely scenarios and..... None of them line up with how things played out! So I have some re-figuring to do. I'm finishing this anyway, one way or another ~~WHATEVER IT TAKES~~
> 
> For anyone reading this, I sincerely hope you're enjoying it! Thank you for sticking with me thus far.


	6. Strength

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things I want to touch on ahead of time: Lorelei shows up in this chapter. I'm not super up on my Marvel comics, but my understanding is that she's a pretty interesting and nuanced character in certain titles. I'm basing this off what I've seen from her episodes of Agents of Shield, which were pretty straightforward and not terribly flattering.
> 
> Secondly, this chapter touches on Loki's sexual orientation and gender identity, especially in how they relate to Lorelei's very weirdly gendered magic usage. Full disclosure: I am a cishet moron, very open to the near-certainty that I will inadvertently handle this poorly. There is a line towards the end that I'm seriously unsure about, and just, if anything is jumping out at you as irresponsible on my part, please let me know.

980 AD: Asgard, City Limits

 

The archery range is empty when Sigyn finally feels ready to brave it, three weeks after returning to the city. She sneaks down once dinner service has ended and she’s free for the evening, the sun just sinking past the highest peaks of the Asgardian capital’s skyline.

The target she chooses is at half her usual distance, just at the edge of the range. She shrugs her bow from her shoulder and strings it quickly, tests at the ties on the leather bracer protecting her left wrist, then reaches back to her quiver. It takes her a moment to settle on one, but when she does, she nocks it, takes a deep breath, and draws— a false start. Something stops her, and she has to let the string down, doubling over for a moment before pulling herself back into the familiar posture, drawing and loosing in one hasty motion. It isn’t her usual comfortable, careful way. The arrow just barely clips the edge of the target.

It’s a calm day, with a close target. This should be child’s play for her.  She shudders as she looses the next one, and it’s closer, but still only about halfway to center. Sigyn lets out a heavy sigh, shoulders drooping in dismay at her failure, and when she looks down to study her hands, she finds them shaking. The young ásynja takes a few deep breath to steady herself before drawing another arrow, carefully selected from the eclectic contents of her quiver, and trying again. This time, she seems more herself, everything falling neatly into place. It must feel right, because the second the arrow has left the string, she lets her eyes flutter shut, and sighs in relief, this time.

That relief turns to confusion when she looks. Her arrow hasn’t bit into the target at all; it’s sunk into the grass about halfway to it. Puzzled, she plucks another arrow from the quiver, and tries again, more relaxed this time. It flies well, and she follows its path with her eyes, swift and true until it’s diverted, struck right out of the air. Her brows furrow and she stalks forward to examine it.

He can’t hold back his laughter anymore when she yanks it from the soil, and tears free the throwing knife that had knocked it off course. She lifts her head in alarm, finally spotting Loki where he’s hidden himself among the trees that line the range. He waves.  “I missed the first two,” he tells her, feigning disappointment.

She smiles at him weakly, then her eyes drop to the arrow she turns over in her fingers, worrying at the notch his knife has bit into the wood.

“Did you like the book?” She smiles and nods, but without taking her eyes off the arrow. He was foolish to think that his stunt in the Great Hall would fix everything. She’s still distant. She acknowledges the Princes at dinner or if she passes them in the hall, a quick wave if no one’s looking to scold her for it, but she hasn’t approached them. According to Sif and Fandral she’s more present during their lessons, though she’s often absent and still hurries right to work when they’re over. “You’re still avoiding us,” he says gently, a concern rather than an accusation. Her fingers curl around the arrow, but she says nothing.

He feels his heart sink at her continued silence, and ducks down like it might help him catch her downcast eyes. “Sigyn? Everyone keeps telling me I should leave you alone. Is…. Is that what you want?” Her eyes slip shut and her shoulders draw up, shrinking in on herself. “Alright,” he concedes, ruefully, taking a step back. He moves to leave but stops at the tiny sound that catches his ear, scarcely a whisper, _no_. “You want me to stay?” When he turns back to her she’s nodding, expression pained.

Sigyn finally raises his eyes to him— they’re red, ringed by dark, fatigued circles, and brimming with unshed tears. She shudders, as they spill over to run freely down her cheeks, and suddenly he understands. She was struggling to shoot because she was struggling to breathe, to see.     

“Sige—”

“I’m sorry,” she chokes, mortified, letting the arrow fall to scrub at her eyes with the heel of her hand. “I’m sorry. I knew I couldn’t speak to you without— and I knew once I started, I wouldn’t— I can’t stop—”

She ducks her head into her hands to hide her face when he steps closer, face red with shame as well as she strain of her tears, but she doesn’t resist when he pulls her into his arms, mindful of the bow still slung over her shoulder. He remembers that numb, vacant look at the funeral and afterwards. This is what she was trying to avoid, the depth of her grief and sorrow set aside in hopes that they’d someday just go away. He’s suddenly certain that these are the first tears she’s allowed herself since.

“I should be happy,” Sigyn confesses against his collarbone. She’s trembling. “My mother has taken her place in Valhalla beside my father, and Dag, and all of her sister Valkyrie. It’s selfish to wish she was still here with me, but I— I’ll **_never_** —” her voice fails her again, her hands winding into the fabric of his coat. She’s still trying to speak but she’s weeping too hard. He thinks he hears _disgrace_ ; he’s certain he hears _weak_.

Asgard has an austere relationship with mourning. There’s drinking, revelry, you commit the body and their worldly goods to Valhalla through sea and flame, and then you’re meant to be done. And now there’s a fifteen year old ásynja in his arms, sobbing her heart out because her mother was beaten to death by rock trolls and she has the audacity to be sad about it. Who’s been avoiding him and everyone else she loves for the better part of a month for fear of embarrassing them with her grief, that they might think less of her for it.

“Gentle Sigyn. Loving, tender Sigyn.” His heart isn’t as hard as it will be, someday. One arm stays snaked around her waist, firm, anchoring, the other reaches up to stroke her hair. She fusses with it to sooth herself, he knows. She’s got it pulled into a braid, but he can still pet down the top, the way his mother does to comfort him. “I’ve got you,” he tells her. “It’s alright. It’s just me.” She’s clinging to **_him_** for comfort, for protection, and something fierce grips his heart; he holds her tighter. Slowly, the racking sobs fade to gentle whimpers as her sorrow is spent. 

He feels her tense as figures approach the field, a group of Einherjar with bows and quivers, looking to train, and someone to light the lamps arranged along the field.  He could conceal them with his magic, but they’re liable to get shot if he does. “They can wait,” he whispers, challenging, against the shell of her ear.

Loki’s only response when one calls after them to get out of the field is to raise a hand in an especially rude gesture.  “Loki, _no_ ,” she says, a smile finally shining through her dwindling tears as she tries to lower his arm with hers— but the angle makes it difficult and they’re of comparable strength. The gathered warriors give up and move to share the farthest targets at the other end of the pitch, either because they realize it’s not worth reasoning with a couple of unruly teenagers, or because they’ve recognized that the one flipping them off is the Second Prince of Asgard.

“Thank you,” she says softly as she finally untangles herself from him— there’s no hurry, he rather wishes she wouldn’t— and sets to gathering up her arrows.

“Let’s do more,” he suggests when she hands his knives back to him. She frowns, tracing the damage to the two he’d struck down with her finger, and he assures her that he can get her new arrows. 

“I made these with my mother...” He knows Sigyn does her own fletching, but he hadn’t considered— his eyes go wide with horror, and she must notice it because she holds up an appeasing hand. “It’s alright! I can fix them, I think, just… maybe no more?” She tucks the damaged two together at the edge of her quiver so she can find them easily.  It’s an eclectic assortment. She uses things she finds, things people bring her— he’d forgotten, how many of her arrows were made of parts her mother had brought back after felling beasts across the Nine realms. Usually she left those at home, using her own mundane, easily replaced stock for hunting and target shooting, but she’d taken the best ones with her when she’d left her cottage, and right now her quiver is an effective treasure trove of memories. 

“You should save these,” he insists gently, but she shrugs, says they’re what she has. He plans to fix that. He plans to fix a lot of things. She hesitates when he asks how life in the palace is treating her.

“Hildegund works in the kitchens. She’s really nice,” she replies after a worrying amount of thought. “Fimafeng is cross with me, often.”

Loki’s jaw tightens. “Is he, now?”

 “I um…” she shifts uncomfortably, her skirts swaying.  “I don’t think this is allowed,” she gestures around them, between them. “Fimafeng says I shouldn’t pester the highborn." 

There’s a flicker of possessive rage like a tongue of flame through his belly at that, at her submission to it, but for her sake he quells it. “Sigyn, if your mother were a duck and your father were a drake, what would you be?”

“A duckling?” she replies, uncertain. They’re used to strange statements from one another, she looks at him like she thinks it’s riddle.  

“Right. So if your father was a lord, and your mother was a lady, what are you?” Sigyn’s father had been the last of a once-great clan fallen into ruin, and her mother had won her title through her exploits in battle and outstanding service to Asgard. As far as he’s concerned, that title— however minor her destitute little house of one may be— is still her birthright. 

She beams, proudly, in that way he knows means she’s about to be difficult. “A duckling!”

“You are not a duck. I’ve seen what you do to ducks,” Loki plucks one of the arrows from her quiver and ticklers her cheek with the fletching. She giggles, the sound soothing the ache in his heart her cries had left.

Loki plants himself at the starting line, facing the target, and he’s joking when he asks for her bow, but she hands it over willingly.  She just smiles when he asks her to show him how it’s done, reminding him of all the hunting trips he’s spent with Thor.

“Yes, but none of us shoot like you do, Sige.” She practiced tirelessly for that swift, vicious skill, born out of a paradoxical mercy; Sigyn’s prey never knows what’s hit it. She can’t bear to let things suffer. He deliberately takes a very poor stance. “Like this?”

“You know it isn’t,” but she laughs, rolls her eyes, and plays along.

She produces an arrow for him from her quiver, one she’d seemingly made with him in mind— dark wood and shed raven feathers he’d found for her, tipped with black horn and secured with thread, green with a few strands of gold wound in. He kept bringing her the wrong kind of feathers, but she’d said she finally had enough for one, and she smiles at him gratefully as he studies the finished product.    

He’s so stubborn in his improper form that she has to physically nudge him into place, keeps having to push his elbow down when he raises it as high as he can get it, and eventually just stands there beside him, one warm hand holding his shoulder back, the other rested against his spine to keep it straight. He pauses to enjoy the contact for a moment before he looses it. He hits the edge of the center ring, and Sigyn bounds excitedly, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “With a strange bow, too,” she says, more herself than he’s seen in a long time. He has to admit that he preens, a little, at her praise.  “If you were using your own, I bet it would be dead center.”

“Your turn,” he hands her treasured bow back to its rightful owner, and then stops her when she turns towards the same target. “That one, I think.” He indicates the nearest target at the farthest distance, which one of the gathered Einherjar is using. She contemplates it a moment, that guilty delight that she wears whenever he’s tempted her into some harmless mischief, and draws one of the reliable favourites she’s been using and repairing for years: duck and cedar tipped with a point of sharpened antler. The soldier glares at her when she lands a bullseye on his target, and Loki cackles in abject delight.

It never feels like a competition, with Sigyn, so he never feels like he’s losing. She delights in his successes, and he’s all too happy to return the favour.

The sky is growing dark as they make their way back to the palace, all of Sigyn’s errant arrows safely tucked back into her quiver. “Have you been sleeping?” he asks, taking in the visibly signs of fatigue in her face and she shakes her head with a little shrug. She’s been sleeping fitfully since her mother’s funeral, catching a few hours after a long night of staring at her ceiling. A strange room with strange sounds from the heart of the city, so far from the peaceful noises of the wildlands behind her cottage, and the fear of the sadness and heartache waiting in her dreams. “I could help…?” Loki offers, and leads her towards the royal solar when she agrees, at once shy and hopeful. He leads her to a sitting room just outside of his family’s private wing, the large window opposite letting the last few rays of rosy sunset filter into the room.

“Of course, this would be far more restful in the comfort of your own bed—” She gives him a disapproving look and he relents.

Sigyn unlaces her boots, and curls, nervously, on to the couch where he indicates. She keeps bolting upright to glance down the hall at every little sound, as if she’s afraid someone’s going to come along and haul her back to the servants’ quarters.

“Don’t worry. I’ll conceal you and watch over you. It will be fine,” Loki promises as he kneels beside the couch.

“Isn’t that going to be awfully boring?”

“I brought a book.” That seems to satisfy her and she settles against the cushions, tucks her braid over her shoulder, and arranges her arm under her head. He lays his hand on her temple, reaches out with his magic to feel the dulled warmth of her weary self, usually so bright and lively. It won’t last the night, he’s hoping for a few hours and not the fifteen minute intervals he managed the last time. This should be far easier; her body’s already screaming for rest, it just needs permission. 

Sigyn yields easily to the invasive grasp of his magic. He’s trying to lull, not overpower, so he keeps his touch light as he wills her into deep, dreamless sleep. Something about that willing surrender, that implicit trust she has in him sets a fluttering loose in his stomach. Fond and vulnerable… The word for it, he realizes as his heart skips, is _intimate_.

“Now, should something go terribly wrong,” he begins, watching as each blink of her eyes is heavier, “worst case scenario, I call my mother. Though, should you not wake up, I do believe the fairybook-prescribed remedy is on hand…” She smiles, dreamily, lets out a little puff of laughter. “Say I accidentally turn you into a frog or newt—”

“Do I get a choice?” she mumbles, her amber eyes fluttering shut and staying that way. Her breathing’s slowed, he can feel her drifting off. “Because, if so, I’d like to be a snake…”

“Oh really?”

“Mhm…” she nods, a tiny snuggle against the cushion. “Then we could still be snake-friends…”

Loki swallows hard, a warmth spreading through his chest. “I’ll take it into consideration. Would you rather be venomous or a constrictor?” But she’s fast asleep.

Being a snake wouldn’t suit her, but he appreciates the offer of company. They’d make a better pair of something else, black and red.

Loki smiles at her sleeping form, letting his hand smooth down her hair as it slips away from her temple. “Sweet dreams, Sige.” He mutters a quick word of focus, and casts his magic over her. It settles like a blanket, and to anyone looking, the setee appears empty.

He pulls his book from the pocket of space and slumps into the nearest armchair.

When Sigyn awakes nearly two hours later, she finds Loki and Thor playing cards on the floor in front of her. “I had to tell him,” Loki apologizes as he looks up from his hand, “he was going to sit on you.” 

“Hi Sige!” Thor smiles, but his eyebrows knit together, his boisterous brother’s expression surprisingly gentle. “We’ve all missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” she agrees, voice still husky with sleep. “I’m going to try and be around more, if that’s okay.”  She looks to Loki for his encouragement, and she absolutely has it. Beside him, Thor grins.

“More than okay!” He invites her to play a few hands with them, but she’s still yawning and bleary-eyed, and Loki suspects that if she can get into bed before she wakes up properly, she might actually be able to sleep.

He walks her back to the common room of the servant’s quarters, towards the door to the ladies’ wing. “Oh!” she exclaims softly, motioning for him to stay put. “Just… I’ll be right back. I just need to get something.”

“Why can’t I just come with you?”  He quirks an eyebrow. Truth be told, he's curious about her living conditions. She’s used to very little, but he at least wants to see for himself that she’s comfortable. “Why can’t I see your room?”

“I’m not allowed visitors.”

He furrows his brow, crinkles his nose, “I know Sif’s been to visit you.”

“I’m not allowed **_boy_** visitors.” 

“I’m a **_girl_** ,” Loki replies with playful indignation, shifting into another familiar skin with a ripple of green light. She’s never had to worry about doing this in front of her— Sigyn and Thor both. As tactless as her brother can be, sometimes, in this he’s always been accepting. In identities and attractions both, Loki has little use for categories, and of the many thing Thor teases about, neither of those is among them.

 It’s different than pretending to be someone else, this form just as right, as ‘self’ as the other. The older Loki gets the more pronounced it is, but it’s still subtle. The eyes are the same, the same sharp cheekbones and chin, the same lithe figure, though her clothes sit differently, voice sitting just a touch higher. She gestures expectantly towards the hallway.

Sigyn’s smiles at him patiently with another sleepy, fond breath of laughter, and amends, “no visitors who are **_also_** boys.”

“Damn.” She turns into Sif.

 “ ** _I_** still know who you are.” She sighs, defeated. This is definitely against the spirit of the rule, but not the letter, and she’s too tired to argue. “Alright, come on.” He grins, victorious, the expression distinctly Loki writ across Sif’s features, and follows her down the hallway. 

“Why don’t you want me to see your room?” he whispers, mindful of the muffled noises behind the other, evidently occupied, doors. He quirks one of Sif’s dark brows.  “Are you afraid I’ll do something?” He doesn’t like the way that sounds, so quickly adds, “like put a frog in your sock drawer again, or wake you up in the middle of the night to talk about—”

Her eyelids are still heavy as she shakes her head, with a distrait little shrug. “It’s not fair to the girls who can only meet with their…” she inclines her head, thinking for a moment, and he’s suddenly **_very_** interested in the word she’s reaching for, “male friends,” she says finally, “in the common room.” She stops outside of one of the doors, pulls a key from her pocket. “And …. Well, just know that I’m content.” She assures him in a way that makes him very certain that he’s about to be outraged. 

He steps inside behind her, and frowns. Her room would fit easily inside his closet, a single space with a bed, closet and another door that seems to be a small washroom. Her room at home was likely no bigger, but her window there looked out into her garden, not a cramped little courtyard between wings of the palace, and that made it feel far less claustrophobic. There’s a little table by her bed, and she retrieves his book from it, and offers it back to him. He takes it, passing her the one he’d just finished in it’s place. She looks over it so excitedly he fears she’ll wake herself up.  

“Thank you,” she beams, her expression and voice moved, “for… Well, everything.” She throws her free arm around his neck, easier at Sif’s height, for another quick hug before saying goodnight, her next read clutched to her chest. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he tells her as he takes his leave, thrilled when she agrees— she always keeps her promises.

“Hello, Your Highnesses!” She greets brightly when she comes across them in the courtyard after their lessons, but on her way to report to her duties. To Loki’s relief, she looks much better rested. The two princes exchange a look before simultaneously bursting into fits of laughter.

“What?” she says, dismayed. “It’s what I’m **_supposed_** to call you!”

A few days later she finds him in the library, and from the shy gratitude in her smile, he knows already she’s liked the gift he left outside her door the previous evening: a bundle of arrows purchased from a fletcher in town. Pine shaft, metal tip, and he remembers her listing goose as a reliable standard for fletching, crested in her favoured sunny yellow— generic, replaceable, and utterly dispensable. “No need to thank me,” he tells her to quell her worries, “as long as I get to throw knives at these ones.” She grins and agrees and after a stop by her rooms, they head down to the field.

“I bet I could catch one,” he muses, a wicked glint in his eye as he just barely clips her next arrow.

“I am **_not_** shooting at you.”

Sigyn returns his book when she sees him in passing a week later, but can’t stay to discuss it. It’s much better than her earlier avoidance, but still he can only seem grasp her company in fleeting gasps. It’s at dinner the next night he sets a book down beside his plate when a servant clears the high table, whispers its intended destination. The other girl looks bewildered, but nods, and spirits his gift back to the kitchen. Another letter inside is addressed, as before, and proposes a correspondence as they aren’t able to meet more regularly. He asks her opinions on the book, if any passages jumped out at her, and signs, the same: yours, truly, Loki. 

He finds a reply tucked under his place setting the following evening.

It opens: Dear Loki, and goes on to outline everything she loved about that book, the previous one, and how excited she is to get started on the next. She admits that while the first book’s happy conclusion was perhaps improbable, she enjoyed it far too much to care. _The real world is often sad and unfair,_ she writes, _what are stories for if not to give us courage? That our trials are not in vain, that things will work out for the best, and even if they don’t, that we’ll still somehow be alright in the end._

She’s signed it: _Yours always, Sigyn._

They go back and forth like this for months, stealing words when they’re able but passing notes back and forth when they’re not. Sigyn reads slowly and has less time for it than she used to, so sometimes they run out of story to discuss. He’s not about to stop writing her, not for anything— so his messages get very silly.

He writes her entire letters in verse, letters with alliterations strung together for paragraphs at a time. It doesn’t come as easily, but she tries to respond in kind, and he adores her dedication to their games.

They pen letters speculating about the dramatic lives they’ve invented for the horses of the royal stables.

They’ll soon be allowed to travel to Midgard for the first time, set for midsummer. He tells her all he knows of it, in preparation. She’s so excited to see it at first, and her ardor stokes Loki’s own— a whole new realm to explore— but as the months wear on, her enthusiasm dwindles. She grows nervous as the date approaches, but his reassurances comfort her, and she’s still resolute, but it’s all for naught. She won’t be coming with them; it hasn’t been allowed.

“You and your companions are to be protectors of the Nine Realms,” his father tells him, dismissive, when he brings it up as casually as he’s able over breakfast one morning, “it is imperative that you know them. A serving girl has no business on such an excursion. I’ll hear no more on this.” He and Thor exchange a look, his brother visibly disappointed, but he says nothing. Loki too holds his tongue, but inside, the gears are turning.

In the meantime, all he can do is record everything from their adventures to share with her when he gets back, and she listens, spellbound, sad, but never resentful.  

He writes to her during dull lessons with his tutors and from his seat on the sidelines of his father’s council meetings, scribbled surreptitiously under the guise of note taking, fighting to keep the smile on his face from giving him away.

One reads: _I’m so bored I’m going to die_ if the first letter of each line is examined in isolation. Another says _wish you were here_.  

He glances up just often enough to feign full attention as his father holds court, all the while working away at the letter hidden among his notes.

_My dearest Sigyn,_

_I’ve been confined here for two hours now. The minutes are starting to blur together, and I fear I’ll soon forget your face, the sound of your voice…_

Thor glances over at him, desperate to see what he’s writing when he fails to stifle a snicker as he continues on this way for paragraphs, growing more audacious as he outlines the torture to which their fiendish captor subjects him: detailed discussion of agricultural taxes.

_Attached is my best approximation of where we’re being held._

_Wait for me, my darling._

He’s quite proud of his topographical map of the throne room.

To his delight, she enjoys that one immensely. Her reply is of the dutiful wife anxiously waiting for her beloved to return from the war, and she shares how things fare without him on their homestead (which, from her description, is an awful lot like Valaskjálf’s kitchens).

Still, she signs them _yours, always_.

Volstagg shepherds them down to Midgard frequently, the princes, Fandral, and the Lady Sif. Midgard is tame by the Nine Realms’ standards, the people primitive and easily impressed. They seem to have conceived a new name for him every time he visits, and as he does, he adds to the ever-growing list of ridiculous titles he includes when he signs his letters. His most recent reads, _Loki, Prince of Asgard, Odinson, Protector of the Nine Realms, Sky-Treader, Raven-Hair, Silvertongue, Shapechanger, Trickster,_ and the most recent name they’ve given him, _God of Mischief_.

Sigyn writes him back. She signs it as she always does, with one addition: it says, _Sigyn, from the kitchens._

Something about that sits ill with him for a long time.

When he sits to pen the reply, he addresses it to _Lady Sigyn, Daughter of Helgi, Daughter of Sigrun, last of the Ylfings, daughter of Valkyries, gentlest of warriors, fiercest of servants, most devoted of archers, most merciful of hunters, Savourer of Stories, Braidsmith, Punsmith, Hungersbane, Tenderheart, Tinder-catcher, Vault-stalker, Horse-namer, Frog-catcher, Oathkeeper, Book-keeper, Flower-keeper, Twice-broken, Precious cargo, Sif’s found sister, Fandral’s rescue, Friend of Thunder, Friend to Volstagg’s appetite… from the kitchens,_

 _Hi._  
  
_Yours, truly,  
_ _Loki._

He probably shouldn’t have mentioned her parents; he **_definitely_** shouldn’t have mentioned the ill-fated camping trip from last autumn, but he slips the note under her door, and hears a crinkle of paper as she picks it up, soft laughter, a hitched breath, as she reads.

The door swings open, and with a hasty glance either way to ensure she isn’t seen, pulls him into her room and then into another embrace, letter still in hand. She smiles at him, sentiment pooling in her warm brown eyes. “You forgot ‘She who cries at everything.’”

“Nope, right there,” he prods at the paper, returning her smile and she buries her face in his shirt again. “Whenever you doubt yourself,” he whispers against her copper hair. “Just remember that I have impeccable taste.”

She meets his gaze, blinking the joyful tears from her lashes, and the depth of affection he finds there nearly staggers him. “You’re pretty wonderful yourself.” With that she looks away with another nervous chuckle, takes a step back, and he slithers out her tiny window into the courtyard before anyone hears voices they shouldn’t from her room.

Rarely, and then more frequently Sigyn is charged with serving at the high table during dinner, or bringing meals to the royal solar in the morning. It still irks him that she’s working while the rest of them eat, but if she’s close by he can at least try an entertain her a little. Trying to make her laugh whenever she comes near is his fondest pastime, passing her his letters directly, whispering jokes when she refills his glass. “Oh no,” he exclaims when Thor accidentally knocks some of their father’s cutlery to the ground. “Asgard is lost without the Odinforks!” She stifles laughter so hard she’s struggling to breath, face flushed a delightful pink.

“ _You’re going to get me in trouble_ ,” she whispers through her hand, failing to bite back a snort. The next time she approaches the table all Loki has to do is **_look_** at her and she has to leave again to regain her composure. She performs a quick about face and then she scurries back to the kitchens.

He’s never been quite so proud of himself.

Sigyn comes back to them, slowly. She and Sif start to meet weekly in the common area of the servant’s quarters, Sif’s weaponry and Sigyn’s arrows laid out before them. They talk and laugh together as they work, Sif sharpening her blades, Sigyn mending her damaged arrows, making new ones. They always know when she’s come from meeting her friend, because she arrives to training with her hair braided free of her face, intricate but practical.

Sigyn starts coming to their training sessions again, when she’s available. She perches on the steps and watches, visits with whoever’s awaiting their turn, fusses over whoever’s been flattened. She doesn’t join in, but sometimes Loki catches her studying the rack of blunted weaponry as thought she might, an anticipation, a tension in her body as she watches like she knows she should be next. Even Sif can’t coax her into the ring, but it’s early days, yet, and her interest, at least, is promising.

Loki is patient; for her, he can wait.

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

The great hall is alive with music and the gentle roar of many voices, chatting over food and drink along the tables, pushed to the edge of the hall, the center cleared save the longfire that warms them.

The Midwinter festival brings together all of Asgard’s nobility, along with honoured guests from Vanaheim and Alfheim. They mingle with the Aesir, laughing, and feasting, and dancing to celebrate the past year and usher in the new.

An array of small desserts and treats is laid out along one table, and Sigyn is dutifully replenishing the spread from a tray of fresh pastries when something taps her shoulder. She turns, and finds no one there, just as she feels another tap against the other shoulder.

A playful smile creeps across her face— she knows this game— and she reaches quickly behind her. “Got you!” she exclaims happily when she connects with someone cool and solid, and turning finds her hand splayed flat against Loki’s grinning face.

She flinches, when Fimafeng barks her name, because she’s essentially just slapped one of the princes, and Loki notes with extreme displeasure how she all but cowers from him. He forces a smile, instead, offers Sigyn his hand. “My Lady, might I have this dance?” She takes it, glancing hopefully back at her alleged superior, bouncing eagerly on the balls of her feet.

“May I? Please?”

From behind her, the venomous glare Loki is leveling at him leaves him no choice. “One,” he grumbles. “Then back to work,” Loki leads her towards the dance floor before he can change his mind, and they fall into the dance, one hand on her waist and hers at his shoulder, hands clasped.  She loves dancing. They spin and weave, breathless and joyful, between the other couples, wave to Volstagg, Thor and Sif, when they pass by the table where they’ve gathered, and Fandral whenever the dance takes them past him, and seemingly a different girl each time. The song ends, and a slower one begins. “We came in part way,” Loki says, pulling her back when she meekly tries to return to work. “That wasn’t a whole dance.”

The hall blazes with rainbow colours, guest all in their flashy, festive finery, except Sigyn— all in her discreet songbird brown, save the delicate net of copper thread securing her braid into a bun. The more leisurely pace gives her time to look around, and the discrepancy weighs on her, her earlier elation tarnished, as her eyes pass over the other dancers, the way they’re looking at her, how some heads bow together in gossip. She settles closer to him as though trying to hide.  “People are staring,” she whispers nervously.

“Probably me,” he replies easily, “I’m not exactly well-liked.” Her brows furrow at that, and he shrugs as best he can without throwing off their pace. “I’m scrawny, and strange, and practice seidr like a girl.”

“Your brother does magic,” she protests, then her eyes go wide as something occurs to her. “Your father does more magic than **_anybody_**.” She glances towards the high table where his father is still seated, his mother at his right hand and Amora, a renowned enchantress who travels from her lavish estate in the countryside for all the court’s important events, at his left. The king has a tankard of mead forgotten in one hand, and his eye fixed on them. Sigyn grips his hand tighter, leans in to whisper, “now your **_father_** is staring.” 

“Again, me,” he assures her. “I’m socializing voluntarily; he’ll probably go back to his study and mark the calendar.” He smiles at her. “Want to go re-name all the guest’s horses? Our drama could use some fresh blood.”

“I have to get back to work,” she laments, smiling.

“Alright, fine then. A different game. What’s….” he pauses, looks around the room. “What’s Volstagg? I don’t think we ever did him.”

She thinks, still following along with the gentle sway. “Hmm…. Something…. Big, and strong, and fearsome,” she muses, “but… social. Caring. Protective. A Bear?”

“And always eating like he’s preparing for, or recovering from, hibernation. Perfect!”

“Loki, no,” She giggles despite herself. “But I suppose… no, it’s mother bears that are so protective, something more paternal.” She glances back at their group, takes in Volstagg, his plate piled high with snacks as he entertains his young charges, booming laughter echoing through the hall, his hair and beard a deep red mane. “A lion,” she says, more certain this time.

Sigyn’s evidently done Sif’s hair, for a party rather than a fight, this time, a series of fine braids chained together over the rest of her straight black hair, loose down her back. Her gown is an elegant pewter grey.  Sif’s eyes fall intently on Thor, and his never seem to return the favour. Sif sighs, watching the dancers, and Sigyn echoes it sympathetically. “Poor Sif.”

“Sif doesn’t like to dance.”

“She would if your brother asked her— _oh_ ,” the last note comes out breathy, heartbroken.

A familair ásynja a few years their senior, with flaming red hair, porcelain skin, and a gown of shimmering teal skimming her shapely figure, breaks away from the veritable pack of young Aesir vying for her attention and strides towards the elder prince.  After a brief exchange, Thor takes Lorelei’s hand, and leads her to the dance floor.

“That’s… odd,” Loki puzzles, brow furrowed, and Sigyn sighs again.

“Poor Sif,” Sigyn looks away quickly when Sif turns her attention to them. “I know her. She’s so stubborn, she could go her whole life without ever saying anything.”

“And Thor’s so oblivious, he could go just as long without noticing, leaving her to languish... Oh Sigyn,” he despairs. “It’s agony.”

 “You sound as though you speak from experience,” she begins, and he wonders if he’s imagining the concern in her voice. “Do I know them? Can I help?”

“As for the second question, you absolutely can,” he replies with a wolfish grin. His heart pounds in his chest, so aware of the heat of her body pressed to his own, of her hand in his, the way the light from the longfire catches the red in her hair, the warm amber of her eyes. He's filled with a surge of foolish courage, near drunk on it. “But as for the first, what fun is it if I just tell you? How about this, a variant of our game: I tell you the fylgja, you tell me who she is.” 

“A girl?”

“As it happens,” he watches her face carefully. She’s looking around the room, her eyes fall to Sif and he laughs, shakes his head emphatically when she glances back at him, questioning. She finds the other highborn girls she attends classes with, Sunna and Bil are together by the drinks, and he’s certain she looks relieved when he shakes his head, no. He offers his hint. “I see her as a little red vixen.” She twists in his arms, losing her tempo for a moment, and looks from him, in quiet alarm, to his brother and Lorelei a few yards away—is her despair for him, for herself? Both?

“Because of her hair?” He inclines his head, eyes on hers. “There are other redheads in Asgard… this one is…. Playful. Adaptable… Dangerous to gamebirds? And my hints must not be very good, because I know her to be **_very_** clever and I haven’t exactly been subtle.”        

Sigyn’s breath catches, and he knows he’s not imagining the way she flushes right to the tips of her ears. “She’s a very lucky girl,” she replies, flustered. Sigyn ducks her head to hide the heat rising in her cheeks, her smile equal parts joy and disbelief. “Perhaps she just… wants to make sure the signs she’s seen aren’t born from her own wishful thinking.”

“I think we might both be doing that,” he begins with another sly smile, adjusting his hold on her to remind her of it, “you know… Dancing around one another.”    

“I—” applause interrupt the thought as the musicians finish the piece and announce a short pause, the dancers dispersing. “I…” her voice drops to near nothing, “I need to get back to work.”

“Perhaps there’s something at **_that_** table they need,” he offers, eyebrows raised as he indicates the corner where their friends have congregated. He reluctantly lets her go with a graceful bow. She scurries back to the kitchen, and he drifts back to his other companions, with the addition of Lorelei, clinging to Thor’s broad shoulder, his arm around her waist. Fandral’s rejoined them, and he looks… troubled, as he watches them together, and not in the confused way that he and Sif are. He looks annoyed— envious.

That’s **_very_** odd.  

From the look they exchange, Sif has had the same thought.

To the excitement of all but their new guest, Sigyn is able to justify sneaking over to their table with a tray of snacks, and chats with them excitedly as she very, very slowly lays them out, occasionally stealing glances in his direction. “I made these,” she tells Volstagg proudly, indicating some tiny biscuits. “I helped prepare things for these… I helped decorate these ones, and— Oh!” she indicates some tender pear and goat cheese-stuffed pastries. “Hildegund made these!”

“I **_know_** ,” Volstagg says, his grin huge, and his plate heaping with them.

She finally has to leave them, with one last shy smile at Loki, and darts over towards a punch bowl where Sunna and Bil have pasued, to gather the dirtied goblets left nearby on her empty tray.

“Would you excuse me, Thor?” Lorelei purrs, Sif bristling immediately at her presumption and Fandral at her attention towards him. “I’ll be just a moment.”   

For all Loki’s barbs about Thor’s head being empty, he knows that isn’t true. His brother is intelligent, although impulse always seems to win out over reason, when it strikes him. The look in his eyes as she leaves is alarmingly vapid, his smile vacant.

Loki’s eyes don’t leave Lorelei as she stalks over to the punch bowl, making a beeline for Sigyn. Sif’s watching her like a hawk and Volstagg is preoccupied with Hildegund’s cooking. A brief flex of his magic puts a duplicate of him behind the nearest pillar, within earshot. To any onlooker, his physical body is contemplating a biscuit profoundly, taking an occasional tiny nibble. It’s all he can manage with his attention divided this way.

Lorelei stops directly behind Sigyn, and leans in to whisper in her ear. “Nasty little climber, aren’t you?” she hisses, startling the other ásynja.

“My Lady?”

Lorelei leans back, a smug look of victory already on her face as she looks to the two younger ladies milling about nearby, and turns to them instead. “I’m surprised Sif **_owns_** a gown. I expected her to show up in more dirty armor.” They titter, almost nervously, deferring to the sheer force of Lorelei’s charisma, then, with a sidelong glance at Sigyn as she sets to ladling herself a glass of the wine-dark drink, “as least she has the decency to **_pretend_** she belongs here— among us, I mean. You belong here, certainly. Someone has to clean up.” 

Loki’s hand, astral and physical, curls into a fist at his side. He’s sorely tempted to intervene, but he wants to give her the chance to defend herself. _Come on, Sige. Shut her up._

Sigyn steadies herself after the surprise, now just mystified at the other girl’s unprovoked cruelty. “The Lady Sif wears armor for fighting, my Lady, and it’s appropriate at certain formal functions—” 

“Hm. She’s a strange one, isn’t she? I suppose it stands to reason. Just like your mother, the berserker.” She looks to the younger two for approval, who give another uneasy smile, more anxious giggling, and then both desert what’s left in their glasses, hurrying away.

“She wasn’t a **_berserker_** , she was just… spirited,” Sigyn replies politely, giving this entire conversation far more dignity than it deserves.

“Both of your parents were warriors, weren’t they?” She muses, “legends, really. A Valkyrie and the man who held off the Hundings rebellion… And then there’s you, collecting dishes. They must be so proud.”

And that’s the limit of Loki’s endurance.

He snaps back to his body, startling Volstagg with the sudden jolt as he raises his head. Sif can’t hear her from here, wary, but with no reason for alarm yet until Loki starts towards them, at a steady pace not to attract too much attention from the other guests. A glance at the dais finds his mother’s eyes already carefully observing the exchange.

Sigyn’s gone quiet, and finally raises her eyes, meeting Lorelei’s, unwavering but not challenging. Firm, but not aggressive. “Yes, my Lady,” he hears her say evenly, as he draws nearer. “I collect dishes. And I’ll take yours if you’re done with it.”

Lorelei was expecting a scene, and she’s furious that she doesn’t have it. The other ásynja narrows her eyes, and contemplates the contents of her glass for a moment before leaving it on the tray, mostly full. Sigyn takes up Sunna and Bil’s abandoned glasses as well.

A malicious smile pulls at Lorelei’s lips. Sigyn goes sprawling, landing in a crash of broken glass and spilled wine, every eye in the hall turning at the sound. “Oh _no_ ,” Lorelei gasps as he closes the distance between them, their other friends hastening over. Sif gathers her skirts in one hand and reaches her at a sprint in seconds, helping Sigyn to her feet.

“Sige, are you— you’re **_bleeding_**.” 

“I’m fine,” she says quietly, dazed as she examines the shards of glass embedded in her hands. Volstagg catches up to them, and has to direct her out of the hall by a hand on each shoulder as she keeps staring forlornly at the mess.  
  
“Someone else can clean that up; lets get **_you_** cleaned up.”

 “Oh, how humiliating,” Lorelei says when Thor and Fandral reach her, a hand to her mouth in feigned horror. “Well, I suppose it’s a little funny.” To Loki’s absolute horror, Fandral and Thor both laugh along with her.

“You tripped her,” Loki hisses, eyes narrowed.

“I was nowhere **_near_** her,” she replies, lashes fluttering in wounded offence. Her hand rests on Thor’s shoulder. “It was an accident.”

“Loki, it was an accident,” Thor repeats, eyebrows raised, a laughing note still in his voice. 

“The poor clumsy thing,” Lorelei adds, and Fandral nods.

“Oh yes, very much so. We were all camping once, and—“”   

Loki looks between them, his jaw growing tight. It’s Lorelei’s face that seals it, the dismay building when his expression doesn’t soften. “I said, isn’t it funny?” she repeats, more forcefully, looking directly at him now. Thor and Fandral agree heartily, and Loki feels it, the tickling wave of her magic passing over him and finding no purchase. Her hand shoots out to clasps his shoulder; he allows it. “It was an accident; I am blameless,” she says again, beginning to look visibly distressed. 

“You tripped her. With magic.” 

“Me? Why, I don’t have….” Her eyes widen, panic setting in as he fails to fall under her spell; it’s immensely satisfying to watch. “Boys, just… wait here, would you?” The two blond boys nod placidly as she turns on her heel and hastens away, catching up to Sunna and Bil as they make their way out of the hall and falling into step.

As she distances herself, her hold seems to slacken, though their eyes still look vacant.  Thor’s gaze falls to the puddle of spilled drink and shattered glassware, his brows furrowing, like he’s distantly aware that this should be upsetting.   

Loki fixes himself a glass of punch, careful to catch one of the fruit slices floating in it.

Sunna and Bil shriek when he suddenly appears in their path, arms folded across his chest, though Lorelei is unphazed. “Going somewhere? So soon?” 

 She seems to have shaken off her shock, and she smiles. “You know, Loki—”

He raises a cautioning eyebrow.

“—My **_Prince_** ,” she amends, sickly sweet. “Of all your jokes, that serving girl is by far the most amusing.”

“Her name is Sigyn. She was with us last year, as you well know, and she has more grace in her little finger than you’ll ever possess.”  His apparition’s eyes are steely as he meets her calculating gaze. The other ásynjur, blonde Sunna in her sparkling gold and dark-haired Bil in her silver beside her, exchange apprehensive looks.

“She’s common as dirt,” Lorelei assesses before the seductive note works its way back into her voice. “My Prince should set his sights higher.”

His eyes flicker over her, appraising, unimpressed. “I can think of nothing lower than taunting a girl who’s done me no wrong about her **_dead mother_** ,” he hisses. Sunna and Bil wear matching expressions of wide-eyed horror. “Leave us,” he commands without taking his eye from the other sorcerer between them. They mutter polite farewells before fleeing back towards the party.

The corridor now otherwise unoccupied, he can speak plainly. “Are you hiding a cow’s tail under those skirts?”

She bats her red eyelashes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean whatever hold you have on Thor and Fandral. Release them.”

Lorelei’s not ready to concede, still smiling smugly, lips peeled back to reveal a dazzling smile. “Why, it’s just my natural charm. Is Fandral’s weakness for beauty not well-known?”

Loki smiles in return, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “He’s a fan of pretty ásynjur, I’ll grant you, but there are just… so **_many_** to enjoy, and I’ve never seen him lose sleep over one. Friends, though…  He’d never choose you over Sif or Sigyn, not of his own volition, and neither would Thor. Now **_end_** their enthrallment, or—”

She laughs, cool and silvery. “Or what? You’ll run and tell your parents?”   

If she thinks she can goad him into acting like an idiot, she’s sorely mistaken. “The Allfather and the most powerful sorceress to ever live? Yes. And I’m sure they’d be **_very_** interested in what you’ve done to their son.”

“Just the one, though,” she quirks a red eyebrow, her gaze passing over him again, and Loki bristles at the way she’s studying him, the intrigued smile pulling at her lips, the dark mirth in her green hazel eyes. “So it’s true what they say about you.”

“You’re going to have to be far more specific.”

“You asked me earlier what I was hiding in my skirts,” she says, voice falsely innocent, eyes leering. “I’m just curious what you’ve got down your trousers.”

Loki draws himself up to his full height, such as it is at sixteen, and looks down at her impassively. “Knives,” he replies coolly, “apart from that, whatever I’d like. Perhaps that is why your magic didn’t affect me. Or,” he sounds thoughtful, but then fixes her with an unwavering stare and a vicious grin, baring far too much of his teeth to be considered a smile, “perhaps I’m just… better at it than you are. You have five seconds to release them— or I’m going straight to the Allmother, and you’re going straight to the dungeon.”   

He blinks back to his body, the drink he’s been absently sipping long gone. Thor and Fandral look bewildered, but fully present again, so he sets the glass down and moves to leave— He notices Sunna and Bil back by the drinks. Loki gives a surreptitious wave of his hand, and the two girls leap away from the crystal bowl with a collective, piercing shriek that, for an instant, draws the attention of the entire hall.   

Alright, **_now_** he can leave.  

He finds Sigyn in the nearest sitting area with Volstagg and Sif, dress stained with dark splotches, hands held carefully, palms up in her lap. It’s not a matter for the healers, and they’ll fix themselves soon enough, but it warrants a break until they do.  

“You really must stand up for yourself, Sige,” he tells her as he takes a seat beside her, an impish glint shining in his eyes, “because if you don’t, I will— and you’re far kinder than I am.”

“What did you do?” Sif asks, though she sounds far more approving than usual.

“Me?” he grins, as Thor and Fandral wander in, looking sheepish and a little hung over, “I didn’t do anything. It was the strangest thing, though— there was this snake in the punch bowl. Oh. Though I did make it clear what I’d do to Lorelei if she ever bewitched either of you again. She enthralls men. Like a huldra.”

“Yes,” says Fandral, rubbing at his temples, “so we gathered.”

Soon the marks on Sigyn’s hands fade to scabs, then angry pink lines, and she has to return to her duties for the evening. For the rest of the night, wherever in the hall she’s working, her friends congregate nearby.  

The other two girls find her to apologize, before the night is done. Lorelei dragged them into it, they were intimidated, and they hadn’t realized Sigyn’s mother was dead when they laughed. She forgives them far too easily.

Lorelei makes herself scarce for the rest of the festival.

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

The new year finds him far busier than he’s ever been previously. Odin tells him that he’s noticed that Loki’s studies aren’t challenging him, and scours the friendlier corners of the nine realms for tutors who will.

Their father also asks they take on more active roles in their studies of rule and politics: he charges them to shadow officials, asks for input during meetings (though it’s never given any weight) begins to discuss matters of state with his sons around the royal family’s sitting area.

Thor finds it horrifically dull, but as heir apparent, he grins and bears it. Loki finds it all fascinating.

Sigyn isn’t allowed to serve at the high table, anymore. “Your father did watch me drop a **_lot_** of glassware,” she says, cringing, the next time he’s able to get a moment alone with her. It happens less and less frequently. They still write one another, Loki slipping the notes under her door in the dead of night or leaving books in designated hiding places, but it seems that she’s never free anymore when he is.  

The bright spot in all this is his mother takes him aside to learn magic more frequently than was their habit, and the things she shows him are far beyond anything he’s attempted before. Frigga is so proud of his progress, and his heart swells at her encouragement.

In his moments alone, he tests himself, pushes the limits of what he’s been able to do with his magic. His illusions become more complex, more complete. He projects himself farther than he ever has, before, slowly extending his range, develops the awareness and functionality of the body left behind.

He spends hours over his mother’s seeing pools and scrying fires, and through them he can reach further still, see things where before they’d offered him nothing.

He figures out how to hide himself from that sort of magic on his own.  

“Sige!” she starts, whirling around at the sound of his voice when he appears behind her in the archery range. The snow has been cleared from the field in trenches that run to the targets.  It must be cold out, because Sigyn is wearing her warmest cloak— the one her mother had had made for her years ago in sunny yellow wool lined with rabbit fur she’d saved from dozens of hunts.  It’s short on her now.

She looks at him in concern, dressed for indoors, and even wearing fewer layers than usual, but he just grins, and offers her his hand, bids her take it. She looks a little puzzled, but does as he asks, eyes widening when her hand passes through his in a shimmer of green light. “Guess where I am?” Loki grins as she begins scanning the treeline for him. “My room!” he exclaims happily, watching her face light up as she looks to the distant palace.

He starts meeting her this way whenever he’s able. They arrange times for him to meet in her room, so he can be sure not to catch her unawares. They sit, she on her bed, he on his back in the royal solar, and read together again, and as long as they keep their voices down, no one will ever be the wiser.

“I’m **really** not supposed to have a boy in my room.”

“You don’t!” he whispers gleefully, “I’m all the way across the palace.”

He just can’t touch her… which is really underlining how badly he wants to.  

He extends his reach again, and again, and over a fire he can Walk outside of the city, now, through the plains of Ida, through the forest trails, and, he realizes, he could walk right off the edge if he so desired, his physical form safe and sound at home.

It’s poking around the fringes of the realm that he starts to find things. Wonderful things.

He has an idea, and soon after, he has a **_plan_**.

“Thor… Thor!” Sif tugs on his brother’s sleeve, eyes fixed on him as he makes his way through the courtyard, having snuck into the kitchens at exactly the right time. He can hear their little group as he passes by, but he’s on a mission, and nothing can spoil his mood. “What in the Tree is your brother doing with an entire live crab?”

“My money’s on ‘unhinge his jaw and swallow it whole’,” Fandral retorts, dryly.

 “I never know what Loki’s doing anymore,” he hears his brother reply cheerfully, “but he certainly looks happy about it.”

It’s a long hike to his destination, and then a very long hike back, but a visit to the fireplace in his chambers finds the creature he’d marked with his magic alive, unharmed, and **_elsewhere_** when he locates it. He checks back periodically until he finally catches it somewhere telling, and to his abject delight, he knows exactly where it’s landed.

Everything falls beautifully into place. There’s a particular day approaching in early spring where his father and all his most important helpers will be meeting with King Freyr of Vanaheim (not in person, but by the magical means that have become so familiar to Loki) over the previous years’ uprising, and he has not been asked to attend   

“Sigyn!” She’s getting used to his sudden apparitions, and looks up from the vegetables she’s peeling with a smile. “Can you get the day off a week from tomorrow?”

“A week from…?” her brows knit together, the significance of the date not lost on her, but she says nothing about it. “I… I can try. Maybe for a while? Why?”

His smile widens. “It’s a surprise,” he’s barely able to contain his excitement. “Just… dress for a hike, and bring a change of clothes— And your bow! I nearly forgot.”

“A change of clothes?” she asks.

“Yes,” he replies grinning. “We’re going swimming. You’re a strong swimmer, right?”

 “Yes, I mean… okay!” she laughs, breathless and bewildered, but beaming.    

He promises to meet her first thing in the morning in the courtyard behind her room, and then vanishes in a shimmer of emerald magic. Loki scarcely believes his good luck and feels a joyful note bubble up in his throat. He runs his hands over his face and through his hair, before he falls back against his bed laughing, not sure how he’s going to focus on anything else for the rest of the week.

Oh, this is going to be **_fun_**.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to anyone reading! I sincerely hope you're enjoying.
> 
> My understanding is that pronoun usage is highly personal, so what I'm going with for Loki is male pronouns for the most part (as MCU Loki seems pretty comfortable being called brother/son, etc) but I'm specifically using female pronouns for Lady Loki, and not, say, Loki pretending to be someone else who happens to be female, where I'm still using he. Anyway, again, if that's incorrect, please let me know. You don't have to leave a comment, since that seems to be an indicator of quality, and I don't want people thinking this story is better than it is because twelve people had to tell me I hecked up. You can always leave me a message at my tumblr, GeminiJackdaw. Thanks!


	7. The Lovers

981 AD: Asgard, City Limits 

 

The early morning air is still chilled as they set out from the city, but the clear blue sky promises a warm day. The first few leaves have sprouted along the boughs of the trees that stretch above them, little points of colour marking the new buds of flowers scattered along the ground and up through the branches.    

Sigyn’s distracted, her expression distant and troubled when he catches her in thought, but she smiles at him whenever she notices him watching. She’s certainly been happier recently than she had been a year ago, but he still sees it, imagines he will for a long time— they heavy sorrow that still weighs on her heart and keep her up at night, especially as this day’s drawn closer, and a tangible melancholy hanging over her now.

Still, he can’t help but smile. There’s something so satisfying about seeing her this way again: a worn tunic thrown over trousers, her own flower-bright yellow and brown like fresh-turned soil, her bow slung over her shoulder as she picks her way along the steep mountain path beside him— a wrong finally set right.

 “I’m allowed out until dinner,” she tells him, eyeing him curiously as he leads her to a thin deer track worn through the underbrush, veering away from the beaten path, “I promised I’d be back by then.” 

He smiles, and nods, but never explicitly agrees to anything. “It’ll be fine,” he assures her instead.

“I promised,” she repeats, shoulders pulling together slightly, sighing. They stop at the foot of a steep hill, its near vertical surface a few minutes’ climb— Loki has faster ways available, and it’s put the thought in his head, but he scrambles up it as an Ás to keep pace with her. She turns to him again, worry in her voice once they’ve crested the top, brushing fallen pine needles from her clothes before wringing her braid in her hands. “Fimafeng says if I displease him again he’s going to send me to a farm in the Plains of Ida,” she tells him, voice low like a confession.    

She’s missed a few stray needles, and he sweeps some from her farther shoulder, leaves his hand there as he studies her worried expression, feels the tension creeping into her posture at the thought. “You might like it, though,” he says, teasing lightly, “run around playing with animals, wear trousers, get straw in your hair.” He flicks a last brown needle from her copper locks, surprised at how emphatically she shakes her head.

“I don’t like farms,” she insists. “I mean, I understand the necessity, but I find them unsettling. The whole… livestock thing.”  He raises an eyebrow, looks from her to her bow and back again.

She shrugs, and he watches her contemplative expression as she tries to wrangle the thought into words. “The rabbits and the ducks and the deer know to run from me,” she says finally, looking up at him, hoping she’s making sense. “It’s fair. There’s something about feeding something, and caring for it, and protecting it and all the while just waiting to—” she breaks off, shakes her head, nearly shudders, and he responds with a soft laugh, eyebrows knitting together.

“I don’t think cows spend much of their time contemplating betrayal.” He leaves the hand on her shoulder for a moment longer. She leans into him, and he smiles, presses his reply right to the shell of her ear. “You’ve friends in high places, Sige, and nothing to fear from that overstuffed hobgoblin,” he snickers disdainfully. “As if I’d ever let him send you away.”

He’s thrumming with excitement, his heart hammering in his chest, magic prickling eagerly beneath his skin, and keeps shifting as they make their way along to burn off that restless energy. He leads her as a black cat, as a snake, flutters and hops along as a magpie. He turns into a salmon just to make her laugh, flopping uselessly in the path for a moment before springing back to his feet as a silver fox—he’s been finding he likes the feel of that one more and more, recently.

Eventually, Loki wants to talk again, and it’s only from the way her clothes sit that she realizes she’s reverted as an ásynja. “Maybe I should just stay like this. Then I could honestly say I’m Odin’s favourite daughter,” she laughs as she says it, but she hears it comes out pained, “except he hates it when I do this.”

Sigyn’s eyebrows pull together in soft concern, her hand resting reassuringly up on Loki’s still-taller shoulder. “Probably just dreads raising a teenage girl,” she says finally, joking but cautious, watching Loki’s reaction carefully, “I’m told we’re quite challenging.”

“Oh please. I’d take raising you and Sif over Thor and me, easily. Ooh, I know,” she shifts her tone, grinning away the slip of vulnerability. Today is supposed to be fun. “I should come to your secret girl meetings.”

“They’re not secret,” Sigyn replies with a gentle laugh. “All we do is sharpen swords and braid hair.”

“Ah,” she shakes her head, runs her fingers through her dark hair, carefully swept back and reaching, just barely, to her jaw. Loki keeps it short, it gets unruly otherwise— she supposes she could just be herself with more cooperative locks, but… that wouldn’t really be herself, anymore.  “Damn.”  Her clothes are too tight in some places and loose in others, so she shifts back.

Loki glances down at Sigyn, frowning slightly as he considers something that’s been weighting on him all year. “Sige, why **_don’t_** you just live with Sif?”  

Her expression grows sad, again, her gaze falling back to the trail beneath her feet. _They didn’t offer_ , she doesn’t say. “Sif’s parents barely have time for her as it is, I wouldn’t want…” she trails off. They tolerate Sif’s unconventional interests— that doesn’t mean they were overly fond of the woman who encouraged them. Not nearly enough to assume responsibility for her daughter.

He can’t imagine Sif not trying. He certainly had, but Odin had been firm: the royal family can’t take in every orphan in Asgard; to favour one would be unfair. Oh yes, of course. Norns forbid life ever be **_unfair,_** as if it weren’t already a great immutable fact of the universe. One way or another, he’s getting her out of that damned kitchen if it’s the last—

Sigyn’s voice snaps Loki from his bitter reverie. “Besides,” she smiles weakly, “in a few years I’d be looking for a job, desperate for one as good as I have now.”

“Sigyn, your job is terrible,” he tells her, eyebrows furrowing. “I’ve seen how you’re treated, and it makes my blood boil. I think I could last all of five minutes being spoken to that way before I stabbed someone.”

“I’m not a thrall,” she insists, “I could leave if I wanted— but I’d have to find some family to take me in, or burden a home for children like me, or…” she makes a face. “Or that farm. And I’d be far away from all of you,” Sigyn reaches down and twines her fingers through his. “I don’t want to be away from you.”      

The route gets more difficult as they continue. The forest thins and dwindle to nothing, the tall expanse of trees giving way to a few isolated sentinels that grow scraggly and wilted, struggling in the thin soil. The ground beneath their feet grows hard and as they approach the sound of crashing waves, the land around them nothing but jagged peaks of barren rock as they spiral higher. “Where are we going?” She asks, not for the first time, not suspicious, but growing more concerned as they near the farthest reaches of the mountains towards the edge of the realm. The city’s visible in the distance, the Rainbow Bridge stretching out towards the mists that mark the drop.

“You’ll see,” he assures her, near giddy with excitement, “almost there, I promise— oh!” He pauses, eyes wide for a moment as a thought strikes him, and Loki lets out a slow breath as he reaches for his magic. She must feel it settle over her because Sigyn jumps a little, looks down to study her hands like she’s trying to see it. “We’re hidden,’ he tells her, indicates the little dot of the Observatory far on the horizon, “from anyone who happened to be looking.”  

He leads her down a narrow ledge of rock along a canyon between two peaks, the sheltered water far, far below lapping calmly against the sides.

He stops abruptly, turning to face her. “Sige,” he begins, with an eager intensity in his eyes, “what I’m about to show you must stay between us— I need you to swear to me you won’t breathe a word of it to anyone.”

He asks this of her often, but he means it this time, and she’s caught off guard by his fervor. “Yes,” she agrees, blinking at him. “I swear it.” 

“On the Tree itself, Sige. On everything you hold dear.”

“Yes,” she repeats, a laugh lilting her voice this time, Loki’s grin growing as she continues. “I swear it on my honour, on everything I’ve ever loved,” a devious, satisfied twinkle lights her eyes, “else let Nidhogg devour me as an Oathbreaker.”

“Now, Sige,” he chuckles, “nothing’s worth **_that_** ,” but she stares back at him, undaunted, a playful challenge. Sigyn takes her promises **very** seriously, and he has no doubt that his secrets are safe.

 “Ta-da!” he singsongs as he turns, a sweeping gesture indicating the expanse of nothing behind them and she’s left bewildered, looking around for whatever he’s brought her looking for. It’s not until she turns to him like she’s given up, begging to be let in on the joke that he relents. He smiles, and from behind, wraps his arms around her, rests his chin on her shoulder. “There,” he says, pointing down towards the dark water. “Do you see it?”

She moves to lean over then freezes, glances back at him poised behind her, brows furrowed. “Are… are you going to push me in?”

“ ** _What?_** ” He gapes at her for a moment, can only laugh incredulously. “Sigyn, when have I ever done anything like that— _letmefinish_ — to **_you_**.”

She looks ashamed of herself for doubting him, which, were she anyone else, would have been a wise observation, and her gaze drops to her boots as she sends a little pebble rolling over the precipice. “It’s just… Some of the things Sif has told me recently…”   

“Ah.” It’s been nothing terrible, nothing he wouldn’t want getting back to her, but… with Sigyn absent, he’s been entertaining **_himself_** , and his own sense of humor isn’t quit as innocent. “Obviously I need you to reign me in,” he shrugs, smiles at her when she raises her eyes again.  “I’m on my best behaviour today; that’s my oath to you.”

She does lean over the edge to look down, exclaims softly when she notices it: a hole in the ocean. It’s a tear a few meters across, a slash of brighter blue through the deep green of the cove’s shaded waters, a bright light beckoning from the depths. “What is it?”

“The sun,” he answers, fingers drumming excitedly against her shoulders, “somewhere **_else’s_** sun. The realm gets a little fuzzy around the edges. It’s like a… passageway,” he continues gleefully, as she stares at the rift in wonder. “Imagine some great burrowing creature gnawed a hole through Yggdrasil.”     

“Where does it lead?”

“That’s the surprise! I did warn you we were going swimming— **_Shit_** ,” he hisses as a thought strikes him cold, “you aren’t afraid of heights, are you? Not after—“ 

“No, no I’m fine, but… Wait…” her distracted assurances trail off, her brows furrowing. She whirls around to face him, eyes wide as the implication sinks in. “You can’t mean—!” She’d thought he’d brought her out her merely to observe the curiosity. Well, he’s done letting her experience things second hand— relaying adventures to her after the fact, bringing her back crumpled flowers and feathers, pebbles and shells, coins and beads and anything else he can squirrel away in his pockets.

She says it’s enough for her; it shouldn’t be.

“I **_do_** mean,” he insists, a heated certainty lighting his eyes that grows sly as he continues. “Of course, if I’m wrong, every atom of our beings will be scattered across the Nine— I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” he interrupts himself at the look on her face, the panic in her eyes as she grabs hold of him to push him back from the edge. “Sigyn, I **_tested_** it,” he eases, laughing gently.  “It’s safe. Do you think I’d ever put you in danger? Strike that— have you ever known me to put **_myself_** in harm’s way?” That does seem to reassure her, the dismay giving way to a familiar hesitant curiosity.

“We can turn back now, if you want to,” he says as he moves to face her fully. Her attention darts back the way they came for a moment, but return to him and stays there, her eyes on his, warm and wide, a fragile hope lit in his heart.  “Sigyn,” he breathes, “trust me.” And she **_does_** — he sees it reflected there, surprised at how dearly he needed it, the certainty that solidifies in her expression. Sigyn nods, swallows hard, and meets his smile with her own, breathless and giddy and the happiest kind of anxious.

A flicker of magic sends her things, bow and bag, away to the same pocket of space where he’s safely stowed his own. He takes her hand, her warm fingers winding easily between his, and he leads her back with him, a few long strides taking him as far away from the edge as he can get, backed against a wall of rock. “On three?”

“One,” she begins, steadying herself, eyes fixed at the empty air beyond the drop, “two,” she glances at him, one last time, and then they’re running, leaping, falling: down, down, down. They hit the waves but their descent doesn’t slow, still tumbling, plummeting, the water suddenly colder, clearer, the bubbles rushing up past their feet. 

Loki breaches the waves with a gasp that breaks into a triumphant cackle as she surfaces beside him, sputtering, shaking her sodden hair, freed by the fall, from her face to take in the unfamiliar surroundings.

It’s beautiful— the sun shining bright through thin clouds in a grey sky, the rift bringing them to the sheltered recess of a fjord, tree covered mountains stretching up around them. It’s colder here, ice still clinging to the shoreline and reaching outwards, loose chunks bobbing in the water. Frost gathers on the first few buds and patches of grass that have ventured up, stirred by a cool breeze that races through the channel. Loki throws his arms wide, jubilant, tipping to float on his back, crows, “welcome to Midgard!”

They paddle to shore, and it’s clear that something is wrong the moment they pull themselves from the water. Sigyn doesn’t stand; she crawls, dragging herself onto the pebbled shore and curling into a trembling ball. “Sige?” he drops to his knees beside her and helps her farther up the rocky slope, panic settling in his gut as he tries to gather her in his arms, rigid, shaking. He’s seen her in pain, before, and for a horrible moment he thinks that’s what this is, that she’d been harmed somehow by the journey.

She’s pale when she looks up at him, lips tinted an alarming shade of blue. The wet curls of her hair have already begun to freeze as he helps her to her feet. It’s... chilly, certainly, Loki’s wet clothes clinging unpleasantly to his skin, and he can see his breath if he exhales very deliberately, but he’s otherwise fine, and studies her in bewildered alarm.

“This way,” he says as he hurries her out of the open, towards the shelter of a cluster of fir trees. She stops suddenly, takes one of his hands between hers— still shivering violently— and it’s her turn to look at him in horror as her other hand rests against his cheek

“Loki, you’re **_freezing_** ,” she says, panic setting into her voice, “you’re colder than I am—”

“I’m fine,” he comforts, with an eyebrow raised and a confused burst of nervous laughter. “Mother always says I run cool… Thor says I’m cold-blooded. I’m sorry, Sige, I wasn’t expecting… Here,” he draws her pack from its hiding place between worlds, presses it into her hands.  Sigyn scurries to a more secluded patch of low juniper trees, her dry clothes clutched to her chest, and Loki sets to shedding his own wet garments.

He’s a gentleman, so he averts his gaze— but he’s also the god of mischief, so he peeks.

He dares a quick sidelong glance over his shoulder— to make sure she’s alright, of course— and all he sees through the lush green boughs is the vague impression of her hair down her back, dark with water, and the corner of her eye as her own gaze wanders, for just that same instant, towards him.

They’ve caught one another; from both their hiding places comes a mutual, bashful giggle.

She emerges, wringing out her hair before tying it back, and Loki frowns at her choice of attire. She looks down at the brown dress sheepishly, smoothing the front and shrugging. “This way I can start as soon as we get back.”

She’s less huddled by the cold, but her colour is still worrying, arms wrapped around herself, dressed for Asgard’s gentle spring, not the last dregs of bitter Midgardian winter. Loki shrugs his coat off, and lays it over her shoulders, waving off her protests about his own warmth. She concedes, wiggling her arms into the sleeves. He doesn’t give off much heat, but she’s welcome to it.

“I didn’t plan it this way,” Loki insists as he pulls her against him, “but I’m certainly not complaining. Summer, next time,” he promises her as they start along a road winding through the hills.

“Next time?” She asks, amber eyes so beautifully hopeful, chasing away the horrible guilt gnawing at him at the trip’s disastrous beginning, and she beams when he nods. Something stirs in his chest, flutters in his stomach at the sight of her, a flicker of that same possessive longing.

Norns, but she looks good in his colours.

It could be better.

He grins again as an idea strikes him, and he feels her jump as another light sweep of his magic ripples along the lines of her dress, the colour shifting, dull brown to her cheery yellow. She’s always fascinated by his magic, and he adores how she marvels at it. “I can change it back, if you really need me to,” he says with a theatrical sigh, “when it’s time to go home.”

 “How **are** we going to get back? I didn’t see the gateway once we were through it.”

“Heimdall,” Loki replies blithely as they crest a hill, the smoke rising from chimneys of the nearby settlement now visible, drifting upwards into the clouds. “He wouldn’t let us **_out_** , but he has to take us back. You know,” he shrugs, “better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.”

She’s tense and trembling beneath his hands, teeth still chattering, breath visible in shuddering wisps, but her apprehension is forgotten at the sight of the village down below, nestled alongside another of those narrow channels out to sea. It’s familiar to him, and he’s mentioned it to her without any trouble, but now that they’re actually here, he’s beginning to worry. “So,” he begins as casually as he’s able, “this is Tønsberg.”

He collides with her when she stops dead in the path, turning back to look at the village in this new light— past the homes and streets to the fields that stretch out beyond them. She lets him pull her in closer, trying to shelter her from the wind and keep her warm as she pauses there, transfixed, looking over the valley below as if she could trace the scars left by the battle fought here sixteen years earlier. He remembers sneaking her down into the vault all those years ago.  It’s the same wistful kind of disquiet in her eyes now, a bittersweet wonder, a curiosity. “So,” she inclines her head, hums thoughtfully, “the hole in Yggdrasil just happened to lead to the same place the Frost Giants invaded?”

The coincidence had been weighing on him already. “There must be some kind of… draw, to this place,” he concludes. “Something here, tugging at things, pulling at space… There are places like that, where things are stronger. Along ley lines, the Norn pools…” Loki shrugs, and they’re soon nearing the little settlement. 

 “There are a few other things I should probably warn you about,” he says as they make their way along. “They’re... well, they’re a great deal of fun, but the mortals are terribly primitive. Father’s insistent we not interfere, let them lead their short little lives as they will,” he rolls his eyes, but she’s listening intently. Sigyn’s expression is concerned as he outlines the limits of their narrow comprehension: wanting in science, bereft of magic, afraid of things they don’t understand and understanding so precious little. “Don’t worry; just enjoy yourself,” he whispers, smiling against the shell of her ear as they reach the outskirts of the town.

The villagers, all still dressed for winter cold, stop at the sight of them, pausing mid-task, or hurrying away to alert their chieftain to their sudden presence. Little ones gather in the thresholds of their houses and cluster together in the street, waving back excitedly when he acknowledges them. It’s the children here who like him best— they haven’t yet learned fear and suspicion, still react to his magic with delight.

There’s a goat wandering loose in the streets—someone’s pet by the beads and ribbons draped around its neck— and it follows them for a time, butting up against him like it thinks he has food and bleating stubbornly when he tries to shoo it away. Loki takes his eyes off it for a second when he stops to direct Sigyn along a turn, and it rams him from behind with its short horns, sending him stumbling. It stares back impassively with its uncanny square pupils when he glares at it.

The village leader is waiting when they reach the mead hall at the center of town, with a few others Loki imagines must be important— warriors, advisors, his sons.  He’s caught them off guard; usually the roar and radiance of the bifrost announces arrivals from Asgard, and the chieftain is visibly flustered.

“Jarl Harvaldr,” he greets as the human nervously takes a knee, the assembled onlookers following suit.

“Your Highness,” the jarl, an older man with greying blond hair and a short beard, speaks towards the snowy cobblestones, before carefully glancing upwards, and rising back to his feet when Loki motions to allow it.  “We were not expecting you back so soon— the seeress did not predict your coming—”

“Oh good. I would so hate to be predictable.”

“To what do we owe the honour? Do you travel alone,” he continues hopefully, “or will your brother and his companions be joining us?”

Loki resists the urge to roll his eyes, smile tight. “No. No, Thor isn’t here today. Just me, and—” he furrows his brow when he turns to find no one there. Sigyn’s migrated from his side to wait timidly behind him, “and my little shadow, apparently. Sigyn, darling, come out from behind me,” he encourages, leading her by the hand to stand beside him again. He drapes an arm over her shoulder the other resting at her waist. “This is Lady Sigyn of Asgard,” he tells them proudly, their expressions softening at the sight of her. “I hope you show her the same hospitality you’ve afforded us in the past,” his smile not faltering as his grip on Sigyn tightens, keeping her upright when he feels her reflexively move to bow. “I’d ask for a place by your fire, so she might warm herself?” The request is a courtesy— they’d be mad to refuse him— but he promised Sigyn his best manners, and they’re happy enough to oblige.

The mead hall is a single open room, like a humble facsimile of Asgard’s Great Hall. A high table sits across from the entrance, other benches and tables pushed along the sides, a great central hearth between them. The jarl’s men pull a bench towards the hearth and offer the seat to Sigyn, who takes it gratefully, leaning even closer to the roaring fire, so close the flames almost lick her palms. She sighs in relief, unfurling in the heat, and her head tips back to soak in the blissful warmth, beads of water from her frozen curls running down her neck. Loki leaves her there to thaw, promising he’ll be back in a moment as he has something to discuss with Harvaldr.

He’s half paying attention as the jarl anxiously addresses him. A group of children is playing at one of the tables, and woman who he seems to remember as the chieftain’s wife speaks with them briefly. One of the children, a girl with her same chestnut hair, hurries from the room and returns later with a soft cloth. She creeps closer to offer it to Sigyn, who beams at her gently as she takes it, sets to drying herself. They exchange words he can’t hear, but the girl keeps her distance like she’s afraid Sigyn will bite and scurries away at the first opportunity, hastening back to her group.

The children are so engrossed in the unfamiliar Asgardian at the center of the room that they don’t notice when Loki quietly excuses himself from the jarl and creeps into a place beside them at the table. He can’t resist.

“So? She is one of those things, isn’t she? Look, she’s melting,” a boy whispers when she rejoins them.

The little girl rolls her eyes at him. “Don’t be stupid. Frost giants are huge and blue,” she hisses back. “Her hair’s just wet. She says they came from the sea.”

“ ** _You’ve_** never seen one,” the boy replies indignantly. “She looked a little blue…”

“That’s cold, idiot. If she were a Frost Giant she wouldn’t be cold.”

“Forget cold,” adds another girl, a little older, in hushed terror, “if she was in the water she should be **_dead_**.”

“And if either of us were mortal, we surely would be.” The group of children startle at his voice and whirl around to find Loki grinning. “She’s an ásynja, I assure you, just like Sif— they’re the very best of friends, in fact.” They know Sif, and they know him. “I think she’d like that very much,” he enthuses when they ask if they should speak to her, and the children hurry over. She scoots the bench a safe distance back from the fire before inviting them to sit.

He joins in after a time, and they’re after him at once, pleading for him to show them magic. Other village folk have filtered in and the room is buzzing, more children piling around as he, with a great show of theatrical reluctance, agrees to demonstrate, and takes on the appearance of one of the gathered children, then their jarl, then a snake, a cat… Himself again, they gasp and giggle as he entertains them with small illusions: birds flap overhead and fireflies twinkle between the sparks that crackle off the fire. He creates the image of an emerald butterfly, which flutters to light on Sigyn’s forehead, and she applauds along with them.

Eventually Harvaldr calls for everyone’s attention and leads the throng of villagers from the Mead Hall. By then, Sigyn’s hair is dry, the warmth returned to her colouring. 

“There is just… one tiny little bit of unpleasantness to get out of the way,” he says as she looks to him for an explanation, wraps his coat around herself tighter as they step outside, join in the group as it makes its way up a steep hill, towards a clearing in the forest at the edge of town. “It seems terribly important to them. So, our earlier conversation noted, ah… just keep in mind: they were going to eat the cow **_anyway_** …” 

Sigyn blinks at him in confusion as they approach the grove of trees, wide eyes flitting to him uncomfortably when she notices the bull being led along with them, and the altar waiting in the grove.

“I talked them down from a horse,” he tells her contritely, voice low to keep the nearby mortals from overhearing. “Honestly I tried to get them to use that blasted goat, but they’ve already dedicated it to Thor, because of course they have” he rolls his eyes. “Probably just patted it once. I swear, Thor sneezes on something here, they make it a holy relic.”  

Unfortunately, they’re given a place at the front of the crowd as Loki gives his blessing (Sigyn manages a weak smile) and the jarl begins the ceremony, offering up prayers to Odin. “They think this will please my father,” he explains under his breath. “Poor bastards. Nothing pleases my father.”

“Cows?” she whispers back, their heads bowed together discreetly.

“Cows, horses… other… things…” he shrugs, not wanting to elaborate and upset her. “They sacrifice pigs and boars to my mother.”

He feels her sway a little, next to him, and her next whisper is playful. “The boars aren’t for your grandfather?”

Loki supresses a laugh. “Careful, or you’re going to be the goddess of puns.”

“I can live with th—”

Harvaldr takes a bowl from the altar in one hand, dagger in the other, and—

Sigyn’s grip on him tightens, and a glance down finds her looking away just enough to avoid the worst of it, leaning into the crook of his neck as he watches, unflinching. She’ll want nothing more right now than to put an arrow through its skull and end it. They’re doing their best, but the mortals are weak and the bull is powerfully built.

 “It’s over,” he whispers to her when the beast has finally stilled, its lifeblood collected in the bowl. Loki snorts suddenly, stifling a startled, horrified laugh as she looks up just in time to get splashed across the face with a spray of the blood flecked from a fir twig to bless the altar and gathered revelers. “You’ve… got a little something there,” he replies, chuckling more freely when her response is a smile of her own, stunned, mortified, nothing to do about it but laugh. “Here,” he says, raising her own wrist to her face, “use my sleeve. They consider it good luck. Feeling alright?” he asks when she’s managed to wipe the blood away, “warm enough?” she nods to both, a little shaken but otherwise she seems to be handling things decently. “Perfect!”

The assembled crowd has begun to disperse, so he needs to act quickly. Loki steps into the center of the clearing, immediately catching the villagers’ attention. “While I have all of you here,” he begins, grinning. “On my last visit, I heard a great deal about the prowess of one of your number. Allegedly,” he begins, prowling before the assembled mortals, “Tønsberg is home to the greatest archer mankind has. Which of you is Egil?” There’s an excited ripple through the crowd, and a tall man with brown hair and simple clothing steps forward.  “Excellent! Do you feel up to defending that title?” Egil exchanges a look with the men to either side of him, looks Loki up and down, and nods resolutely.

“You’re challenging one of the mortals to an archery contest?” Sigyn smiles, bemused, as she comes up to him in the clearing.

“Of course not,” Loki’s positively giddy as he pulls Sigyn’s bow and quiver from their hiding place, and offers them back to her, “you are!”

“Loki, I couldn’t, I…” she takes them back from him and slings them back over her shoulder to bury her face in her hands, the current of eager villagers already drifting back towards the town proper, carrying them with it.

“You’ll win,” he assures her, eyes alight with impish joy, “and even if you don’t, it’s like embarrassing yourself in front of an anthill. Nothing matters, here! They know Thor calls the storms,” he says quietly, as she peeks back at him through her fingers. “They know I have my spells and my games, Sif is a keen hand with any bladed weapon… I want them to know you, too.” Her eyes meet his, drink in the certainty she finds there, and she seems touched by it— sees how dearly he wants her to belong, to fold her back into their number.

“Just for fun,” she says finally, with a hesitant smile.

Eigl gives her a polite bow as they string their bows, a village boy that’s likely his son fetching his for him at a sprint. Loki doesn’t stop her from returning it; it’s sportsmanlike here, not subservient. He’s filled with a kind of steady certainty, only regarding Sigyn, who barely comes up to his shoulder, and her little hunting bow, curiously. There are targets, marked bales of hay, set up near the edge of town for practicing, and he draws his yew longbow, strikes the farthest of them dead-center.

Sigyn considers it for a moment, draws one of her homemade favourites from her quiver, and shoots. Her arrow nestles next to Egil’s, as close as she could possibly get without damaging it. The crowd murmurs excitedly, and a slow smile begins to spread across the human archer’s face. He backs up a considerable distance, and does the same again, his arrow landing a scant distance above his first in the smallest ring. She backs up beside him, nestles another arrow just beside his, and Egil’s bemused little half-smile becomes full-blown enjoyment as he looks down at the little Asgardian matching him shot for shot. She smiles back, bouncing playfully in place, Loki’s heart skipping as he watches her grow bolder.

They continue this way, Egil making a more difficult shot and Sigyn replicating it, both soon tiring of the targets. They shoot at distant signposts and knots on wooden panels, Egil hits a tree on the far side of the Fjord and Sigyn knocks a pinecone from the same. There’s an older man (of some importance, by his fine clothing) contemplating an apple that must have been traded from somewhere warmer. With a wry glint in his eye, Egil bids him freeze, poised to take a bite, and the crowd erupts in another burst of gleeful laughter as Egil sends an arrow straight through the apple, then turns to Sigyn expectantly. She balks at that, not willing to shoot anywhere near someone, but she doesn’t want the game to end, either.

Loki suggests tossing it into the air, and Sigyn perks up instantly. He sends it sailing upwards, Egil’s arrow still through it, and as it hangs there for an instant before gravity pulls it back down, Sigyn looses one of the goose-feather arrows he’d given her, and strikes it easily— the apple, however, does not survive the blow. Sticky chunks of apple rain down onto the crowd, and Sigyn watches, mortified, as her arrow sails through the air, and buries itself deep into a great upright stone at the edge of town, spider web cracks radiating out from the point of impact.  

The stunned silence is broken only by Loki cackling, and Egil joins him, a hearty chuckle from deep in his chest as he scratches at his beard, thoroughly impressed and blinking in astonishment at this tiny ásynja’s impossible might. She relaxes as the crowd erupts into a final burst of whoops and cheers, and Sigyn turns to him, beaming, laughing, and he feels a familiar warmth through his chest.

Egil admits the contest good and done, just as the chieftain announces that the blót feast bull will be ready shortly, and most of the villagers return to the mead Hall, leaving Loki a moment alone with her as she wanders to recovering her spent arrows.

“Having fun?” he asks hopefully, and she nods, still a little shyly. Sigyn’s used to forest trails and scurrying around the palace unnoticed, this is a lot for her, but to his delight she slowly seems to be adjusting to the attention. “Sorry,” he says, trying to smooth down his hair. “I’m trying to make up for a year’s worth of visits all at once. It’ll be less overwhelming when we’re all here together; they generally focus on my brother.”

She smiles at him, gratefully, as she yanks the last of her recoverable arrows from a particular knot on a shed door, but reminds him that it’s not permitted.

“Sige, if you were to come back to training, they have to let you,” he insists as they start towards the bounder that had caught her last shot. That stupid goat is following them again. “I can see it in your eyes when you watch us, you want to come back. We miss you— Sif misses you; you should hear her cursing you when we’re all off together: _damn her for leaving me with these idiot boys_.”

She lets out a soft huff of laughter, looks up at him meaningfully. “We both know I was as bad as Thor and worse than Fandral.” He’s not sure how conscious a motion it is when her hand trails down her thigh, squeezes at what was once her bad leg.

“Alright, fine, then you fit right in,” he coaxes, but her expression is conflicted.

She gasps, hands covering her mouth as they reach the runestone, a few curious villagers observing them. “I just thought it was a **_boulder_** , I didn’t realize it... oh no.” It’s a monument, carved and painted, runes proclaiming it a memorial to those who fell in the battle against the Frost Giants. It depicts a scene: a crude portrayal of an army of warriors facing down a rival line of much larger creatures, their features sharp and twisted, stained blue— the center most figure, depicted as the largest and most terrible, a square object clutched to his chest, now has an arrow sticking out of his face.

Another startled laugh bubbles from Loki’s throat. “I think it’s much improved!”

Sigyn isn’t laughing. She steps closer, spellbound, her hand reaching out to gently trace the stone where it depicts the Asgardian vanguard. She focuses on one, beside what must be Odin— too vague to be recognizable, but the figure charges forward, spear raised. He looks lithe, armor light, hopelessly outsized by his foes.   

“Do you think they’re really that big?” she asks without looking away, retreating farther into his coat.

Something clicks into place, and Loki’s heart sinks, eyebrows knitting as he rests a hand on her shoulder. “Sige, it’s okay if you’re scared. Anyone with any sense would be.”

“I’ll never be the warrior he was, that my mother was,” she answers quietly, “That Sif is—”

“Then don’t be,” he turns her to face him, hands braced against her upper arms, and she has no choice but to look up at him. “Don’t be,” he repeats softly, moving one hand to lift her chin, nudges her gently to guide her eyes to the bow. “Be **_you_**.”

“Loki, it’s not a weapon, it’s… it’s for sport and catching dinner. Am I to mildly annoy the monsters while the rest of you actually fight them?”

“The way you do it, though… I’d love to see any creature ignore one of these through their eye,” he gestures back to the arrow buried deep into the rock. He twists his hand, and one of his sleek throwing knives appears between his thumb and forefinger. “We can’t all be heavy-hitters. I manage just fine.” Her breath wavers, teeth sunk into her lip, and Loki leans in closer, keeps his eyes on hers. “Sige,” he says so achingly softly, the knife waved away as his hand comes to cradle her head, resting against her neck, “your mother was an incredible warrior, but she was **_alone_**. I swear to you— on anything, on everything— I will **_never_** leave you to face something like that on your own.”

There are tears welling in her eyes as she finally gives voice to the quiet dread that’s been living in her heart all year, that’s kept her out of the ring. “Loki,” she whispers, “if I get in the way, if I make a mistake… what if it’s not me who gets hurt?”

“Same principle. We’ll all be together,” his thumb brushes down her cheek, sweeps a tear away when it drips from her copper lashes, “so long as you don’t wander off without us.” She smiles at him, still afraid to speak lest it come out as sobbing, but she nods. “You’ll consider it?” The smile grows brighter, and she nods again.

They haven’t had much time in person since Midwinter, and never by themselves. He has her here, warm, and solid, and real— alone together for the first time in a very, very long time, and he’s not anxious to let go. There’s been a kind of tension since then, an unspoken understanding that their attraction is more than just friendly. She leans into his touch, hands resting against his chest, and he finds them drifting closer to one another. Her lips are flushed pink again, warm. Loki swallows hard, and leans in, his heart pounding as Sigyn’s eyes flutter shut—

There’s a sharp pain in his thigh, and he jerks away with a startled cry.

The goat has a mouthful of his clothing, catching his tunic and trousers where he must have been splashed with apple pieces. “No! No,” he commands, the goat ignoring him as he tries to shove it away, suddenly aware of the villagers that stop to watch. He wrenches his shirt free, but the goat has a firm hold of his pants. One hands tries to pull his trousers free while the other curls around the goat’s horns to try and push it away, careful not to either harm the goat or tear his clothing as he fights this inane tug of war. He finally wrenches himself free, toppling backwards into Sigyn, and they crash to the snowy ground.

“Are— are you— alright?” she says, gasping. When he props himself up he finds her doubled over, laughing so hard she can barely breathe, tears streaming down her face. It’s a beautiful sound, punctuated by the occasional undignified snort, and it’s been a very long time since he’s heard it. Loki feels a crooked grin creep across his face as he watches her and they both clamber back to their feet. There’s a sizeable hole, thankfully to the outside of the thigh of his trousers, but it seems like a small price to pay.

“Maybe you’re not so bad,” he tells the goat, patting it between its curved horns. “I’m glad you’re not dinner.”  

She apologizes as she lapses back into giggles as they start back towards the Mead hall, but he assures her it’s alright, and holds the hole closed, a thought and a tiny glimmer of his magic more or less mending it. The seam is visible, but it holds.

“I do want to come with you,” she admits, fiddling with a button on his coat as they walk. “I don’t know about **_battle_** , but I just… I want to help people; I want to fix things. Sometimes…” she ducks her head, bashfully. “Sometimes I think I might like to train as a healer, but...”

“But? Why ever not? That sounds like a wonderful idea. You can come along to tend our wounds and lift our spirits, and we can keep you far from the fighting, if it suits you better.” 

 She shakes her head. “You have to be so smart…” he frowns, opens his mouth to protest her implication, but she adds, “and they’re healers because their mothers are healers, and their mothers were healers before them… I can’t do **_magic_** …”

“Sigyn, I think I can get you a place with Eir,” he waves her in closer like she has some great secret, and when she leans in, whispers: _I have an in with the Allfather._ He nods, winks, mock serious, and she giggles again. “And as for magic, have you ever tried? You could learn,” he pauses, fidgeting. “I could teach you.” 

She whirls around to face him, eyes wide. “I… Loki, I know you can’t. What your mother has taught you, it’s… It’s sacred, and secret, and—”

He cringes, squeezing his eyes shut, and lets out a slow breath. “That’s… that’s not why I haven’t shown you. It’s…” he winces, again. “I’m… afraid,” he shakes his head, and Sige’e eyebrows knit together in concern, “that if I show you, if you know how it’s done, you won’t… find me interesting, anymore.”

“Loki…” Her tender expression nearly breaks his heart as she stops in the path, taking his hands in hers. “Your seidr is yours, and yours to keep to yourself and share only as you choose. But… if you didn’t have it… you must know that isn’t why I like you? That it isn’t because you’re a prince, or a sorcerer, or sneak me into Odin’s vault or away to other realms, or into healer’s studies… that I don’t want anything **_from_** you.”

He smiles, feels his breath catch when he tries to answer. “I know,” he says, never more certain of anything. “I know. And you must know that I **_want_** to do those things for you,” he says, “with you.”

They make the walk back to the Mead Hall hand in hand, light and music streaming from the doorway. Sigyn pauses just as they move to enter, looking up at the darkening sky. “It’s getting late,” she says, quietly, but her eyes are regretful. “We should be getting back.” A glance up confirms the sun is beginning to set, colours drifting up through the grey haze of the cloudy sky. She’s watching the inside of the mead hall longingly, and he comes to a decision.

There is no way in Náströnd Sigyn is going to work today, and Loki has absolutely no intention of returning her on time. 

“It’s fine. Midgard rotates at an angle, remember? We’re far north,” he assures her, “it gets dark early this time of year.”

She brightens, reassured. He disappears her bow and quiver for her, and then she lets him lead her inside. Their group had been here not long before for their festival to mark the start of spring. Today’s celebration is far less elaborate, last-minute as it is, and put together from what’s left over from Ostara. The village is gathered around the tables (Egil is sitting with his family, and waves to them), the central fire roaring, musicians playing off to one side, a young girl darts around the room, harried, pouring mead. There’s another pitcher sitting on a table by the door, and Sigyn, out of habit, immediately moves to help.

Loki stops her, pulling her back into his arms. “Sige,” he whispers, soft laughter in his voice as he rests his chin on her shoulder, “you don’t wait tables here. What are we?” she twists to look back at him, puzzled, and he gives her the first sound as a hint.

“Guests…?”

“Gods,” he whispers against her ear, grinning. “We’re **_gods_**.” 

The chieftain hastily shifts at the high table, he and his wife moving from the central places. “They give up the high seat when human “witches” come by too,” he explains when she hesitates.

“I thought they didn’t have magic…?”

“No, but they think they do.”

The meal is meager by a prince of Asgard’s standards, but there’s something charming in its simplicity, and he gets to enjoy it beside her. It reminds him of the meals they’d had at Sigrun’s cottage, the game, garden vegetables and fresh breads Sigyn would so proudly help her mother prepare.

He wishes the evening could go on forever.

He keeps running his hand through his hair to tidy it, a few unruly waves that formed when it dried stubbornly refusing to stay in place. Sigyn gasps when she notices one, eyes bright. “Your hair curls!” she exclaims. “Why do you not let it? It’s **_adorable_**.” His hair becomes a haphazard mess when left to its own devices, but he feels his face flush all the same. _She thinks I’m **cute**. _

A skald he remembers, still in town since the spring festival, challenges him to another flyting match. Loki gets the feeling he’s had some clever insults ready in case he got the chance, but Loki trounces him again all the same. It’s all in good fun, the crowd reacting to each traded barb, and the bard looks more impressed than embarrassed when he finally concedes again. Loki takes a theatrical bow, and glances back at Sigyn, the colour high in her cheeks, watching with her hands clasped over her mouth. 

The Skald is especially interested when she tells them stories of her parents, heroes of Asgard both, of her father who fell in the battle to save them from Jötunheim’s monstrous horde. “But you may well know more of that tale than I do,” she confesses. He hears her voice break when they ask about her mother— but Sigyn takes a deep breath, and smiles despite the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Loki twines his fingers through hers, rubs reassuring little circles into the back of her hand with his thumb, and she tells them all about Lady Sigrun, once of the Valkyrior. 

“Loki, it’s getting dark…” she says, but the dancing’s just begun.

“A little longer,” he entreats. “One more dance.”                  

It’s in the middle of their third ’last’ dance, breathless and laughing, that the servant strays too far to the center of the room, and accidentally collides with Sigyn. “Oh!” the metal pitcher clatters to the ground, splashing Sigyn’s dress, and the servant goes pale, eyes wide, and falls to her knees.

“I’m sorry! My Lady, please forgive me, I—!” she’s nearly in tears.

“No harm done, please, peace, friend,” Sigyn soothes, and kneels, helping the trembling human to her feet. “Please don’t be afraid— in Asgard I have your job,” she admits, voice low, and the servant looks at her, stunned. “I dropped a tray of wine glasses, right in front of The King and Queen not long ago. Wine and glass and blood **_everywhere_** ,” she tells her, wincing sheepishly, and the human responds with a bewildered smile as she gathers up her pitcher and scurries away.

“Loki, the stars are out,” she says, the distraction from the music and merriment causing her to glance outside, and he finally concedes. They bid Tønsberg a fond farewell, and set off into the darkness by the witchlight he conjures in his palm. It gives off a slight green light, but no heat (it’s a long time into his studies before he manages fire, and even then it eludes him, always temperamental).

He drapes an arm over her shoulder as they walk. “Did you have fun?” She nods, head resting on his shoulder, smiling dreamily. “I’m glad. I had hoped some time in a smaller pond might do you good.”

They reach the clearing of the Bifrost site, moonlight pooling into an open space between towering fir trees. He walks to the middle of the clearing, then hesitates, mouth pressed into a thin line as he thinks. “Wait,” Loki says, stepping out of her grasp so he can face her better. “Sige, what if we just… didn’t go back. What if we stayed here?”

“Loki,” she smiles gently, eyebrows raised. “Your Father—“

“Wouldn’t miss me.”

“Your brother would.”

Loki rolls his eyes. “Some days I feel you could replace me with a potted plant, and Thor wouldn’t notice,” he crinkles his nose. “If the plant were a cactus, he **_definitely_** wouldn’t notice.”

She takes his hand again, “and when your mother notices you missing?” That stops him in his tracks. “This day won’t be easy for Sif, either. I was to meet with her after dinner service. I **_promised_** ,” she reminds him, and he sighs, letting it out as a slow breath, defeated.

“Alight, let’s get home.” He reverses the enchantment on her dress, convinces the threads they reflect light such that they’re brown again, and drops the enchantment keeping them hidden, feels it slide from her form, light and cool as sheer silk. “Heimdall!” he calls upwards as they always have before. Nothing happens. Beside him, Sigyn’s looking panicked, face pale in the moonlight. “It’s fine,” Loki assures her, “he’s probably just… busy with something. You haven’t travelled this way before, have you?” she shakes her head. “Might want to hang on to me.”

Sigyn drapes her arms around his neck, watching him intently, so closer her breath tickles his cheek. He snakes an arm around her waist, holding her securely against him as he continues to shout upwards. “Alright, Heimdall, very funny, you’ve made your point!”

“Loki?”

“Hm?”

Sigyn pushes herself up on her tiptoes, and kisses him on the cheek. She draws back, suddenly nervous as he blinks at her in surprise. “I… I’m sorry, was that too bold? Did I—”

The grip on her waist tightens, his free hand slipping under her jaw as he tilts her face up to his and presses his lips to hers. It’s chaste and sweet, hasty and clumsy, but his heart is pounding, his stomach is fluttering, and he feels her relax against him with a wistful sigh.  They break away for air, smiling, and then the Bifrost opens above them.

She holds tight to him as they’re pulled upwards as the swirling colours of its energy crash down, hurtling through the cosmos at impossible speed, and an instant later, they’re dropped, gently, in the Observatory.

Sigyn stumbles into the chamber, still clinging to him. “Thank you, Sir Gatekeeper,” Sigyn says after a moment of stunned laughter, when she’s recovered from the shock of the travel.

Heimdall stands at the mechanism, and he smiles at her, but there’s something more somber than usual in his expression. “You are most welcome, young lady.”

Sigyn’s brow furrows and she pulls away from Loki to move towards the exit. Heimdall stops him on the way by with a broad hand, “How did you get out?”

Loki grins, shrugs irreverently. “Even you must blink sometimes.” The gatekeeper’s expression is grim, but he lets him go.

“Hurry home, your Highness.”

At the mouth of the chamber, Sigyn turns to him, eyes wide with panic. It’s late evening.

“You were having so much fun…” he explains with an appeasing smile, her expression distraught. She shrugs off his coat and hands it back to him before tearing away towards the palace at a full sprint.

Loki sighs. He’s never lied to her before, and it sat ill with him even before her reaction.  He’s afraid it might be a while before he gets to kiss her again, but Sigyn never stays mad for long.

He takes the same route at a brisk trot, though the closer he gets the more obvious it is that something is wrong. There are too many people around, the palace teeming as though for an event— and he’s seeing far more figures in fine Vanir garb than usual.

Oh no.

He takes off in the direction of the kitchens, but glancing inside he doesn’t find her. He does, however, overhear two of the other servers chatting amongst themselves, and his blood runs cold.

“—never have seen the old toad so red in the face, the poor thing.”

The other girl lets out an incredulous bark of laughter. “Should’ve thought of that before she skived off and left us to deal with all this mess. Sacked for sure, this time.”

 “Pardon me ladies, but I couldn’t help but overhear,” they pale and bow deeply when he addresses them, trying to keep the panic he feels welling up in his throat from his voice.

The long-distance meeting with King Freyr had been far more productive than either side had anticipated, leading to a long, good-natured conversation that merited a drink together. And with the Bifrost it was easy enough to transport a number of important Vanir to Asgard for an impromptu feast to commemorate the previous year’s victory. The household staff had been scrambling to accommodate the unexpected guests, the kitchens in a frenzy.

“Fim was furious when one of the girls just showed up a short while ago, been missing all day. Dragged her off, red as a beet.”

“ ** _Where?_** ” the servant starts at his urgency.

“I… somewhere that ways, your Highness, but I don’t know exactly.”

He curses under his breath and dashes down the hallway, ducking between the partygoers who spill out of the Great Hall. He stops at an intersection, and thinks. The back corridors the palace staff use are a labyrinth, he could be searching all night, and even if he did find her, he’s suddenly far less confident in his ability to protect her than he had been that morning. He’s in over his head.

Loki rushes towards the royal solar, skidding to a halt when he comes to a sitting room and finds Queen Frigga and her ladies in waiting, chatting with an elegant Vanir woman and her own flock of high-born Vanir girls. “Mother!” he exclaims, nearly sagging in relief.

“ ** _There_** you are,” she rises to her feet, immediately noting his distress. “Excuse me, ladies,” she says hurriedly, one of her hands slipping to his shoulder as she steers him towards their private living chambers. “Loki, what’s happened? Where have you been?”

“I’m sorry. It’s all my fault,” he collapses next to her on their sofa, and it all comes pouring out at once, a frantic uninterrupted stream of near incomprehensible panic— everything but the means of his escape. “—he’s going to send her to a **_farm_** ,” he concludes, eyes wide and chest heaving.

His mother hears it all, her face unreadable. “Go wash up and change your clothes,” she says evenly, graceful strides carrying her towards the door. “Your brother and your friends are in the courtyard. Join them; I will handle this.”

He stumbles back to his room still in a daze, smooths down his hair, puts on fresh clothes, and wanders out to find Thor and the others. Sure enough, they’re gathered in the courtyard with two Vanir boys, drinks and plates of snacks in hand.

“Brother!” Thor exclaims, a grin lighting his face at the sight of him. “You’ve decided to join us! Where have you been all day? Holed up somewhere dark and secret with a good book I’d imagine.”

“Something like that…” 

Thor introduces him to their guests, who, as it turns out, intend to stay in Asgard for a while. The older one, who calls himself Theoric, is more interested in statecraft and culture, but what he can glean from his few words, the other, Hogun, is determined to study battle as the Aesir wage it.                                       

Sif is drawn and distracted, fiddling with the skirts of her gown, her dark hair falling loose about her shoulders. Her eyes follow a pair of laughing revelers, watching as they celebrate the battle that took her mentor, and she takes a quiet sip of her drink. “Were you with Sige?” she keeps her voice low so the others don’t hear, and Loki nods. “How is she?”

“Sad,” he whispers back. “Trying not to show it. I think I did a fairly good job distracting her, until….” He bites back his words. “Everything should be alright,” he assures her when she narrows her eyes at him, and he desperately hopes it’s true. “She was looking forward to seeing you, later.” 

He can’t focus on their group as they chat, Theoric going a little pale when they show Hogun the training weaponry. Loki’s eyes keep eyes darting about to try and spot her, but there’s nothing, no sign of her until the party has ended, and the Vanir guests (save the two boys, and a handful of others) return home.

There’s a knock on his door as he’s settling uneasily into bed, and his mother appears in his doorway. Loki sits up, attentive.

“The matter is resolved,” she tells him. “Your friend will stay here, in my service.”

He collapses back against his bed with a relieved sigh, but something in his mother’s expression gives him pause.

“Goodnight, Loki,” she says, before vanishing, the sliver of light cast across his room shrinking and blinking out the door closes behind her. Obviously she’s not pleased that he snuck out of the realm without permission— Norns, he’s bound to get an earful from his father in the morning.

But he doesn’t. There’s no mention of the incident, as if it never happened.

He can’t find Sigyn the next day. The day after, he happens to be checking the lobby of the servant’s quarters at just the right moment, and Sf and Sigyn are sitting together on the floor, a number of his mother’s weapons gleaming, newly-sharpened, beside her.

“I didn’t think those were real,” Sif says as Sigyn brushes through her long, raven hair. “Aren’t they just ornamental?”

“No,” Sigyn replies, smiling. “They’re sharp **and** beautiful,” she pauses, a wicked smile pulling at her lips as she begins to separate strands of Sif’s hair. “Rather like a queen should be,” she nudges Sif’s shoulder, and the other ásynja glares.

“You’re really going to start this while I’m holding a sword?”

 “Oh!” the redhead exclaims, “I know. When you’re queen of Asgard, I can do **_your_** hair and weapons, take care of your armor, help you pick out pretty dresses…” she sighs. “It’s not fair how you do both better than I do either.”

Loki smiles to himself— she sounds alright— and slinks away. Best leave her her time with Sif, he’ll track her down again later.  

“You look nice in dresses,” Sif insists, her voice drifting down the hallway as he retreats.

“Well I **_feel_** ridiculous.”

Later in the same day, Sigyn sneaks into the royal solar as he’s sitting with his mother pouring over a thick leather-bound tome. She hesitates at the sight of him, and tries to excuse herself.

“It’s okay, Sige,” he says brightly. “We’re having a magic lesson. Mother, perhaps Sigyn would like to join us? She’s interested in learning.”

His mother lets out a slow breath, and Sigyn reaches for her hair, wringing her braid nervously. Alright, perhaps that’s a bit much for an introduction— he’ll show her some basics later, just the two of them.

Loki pushes himself out from the table and moves over to her. “So, we’ve been talking, and we’ve decided our next outing will be to Vanaheim. Theoric and Hogun— have you met them?— are going to show us around. We’re going to hunt bilgesnipe. I don’t know if that interests you— honestly, I could take or leave it— so either instead or afterwards,” he begins, tempting, an eager grin baring his teeth, “the Vanir Royal Library is said to be remarkable.”

“Surely no library could be as fine as Asgard’s?” She sounds… disinterested. In books? He’s never seen Sigyn react to the prospect with anything less than delight. 

“Well, no,” he admits, “Asgard’s is far more extensive— but **_different_** books, Sigyn!” He moves to clasp her hands, but she takes a step back.

Sigyn smiles, placidly, eyes still lowered. “That sounds lovely, Your Highness. I wish you a pleasant journey.”

“Sige…” he starts with a nervous laugh, desperation creeping into his tone, “you are coming with us…? It will be such fun,” she still won’t look at him. He feels his heart plunge into his stomach, his voice small when he manages, “Sige, _please_.” She was fine with Sif earlier. Why is she like this now? Is it him? It’s **_him_**.

Sigyn— **_his_** Sigyn— startlingly sweet, endlessly patient, impossibly forgiving Sigyn— won’t even look at him.

Her fists clench the brown fabric of her skirts, her expression distressed. She raises her gaze, but to look past him, to his mother. “I don’t want to go to Vanaheim,” she says quietly, something in her eyes imploring Frigga to intervene, because she stands, and places a grounding hand on Loki’s shoulder.

”Alright now,” she eases, “let’s let Sigyn go back to her business. Do you have schoolwork?” She makes an equivocating little gesture that ultimately resolves itself into a nod, so Frigga dismisses her for the evening and Sigyn gives an uncertain curtsy before hurrying away from the solar.  

Loki wrenches himself from the grip of his shock then of his mother’s gentle grasp. She calls after him to stop, but relents when his flight takes him deeper into their chambers, towards his own rooms, and not after her.

She finds him raiding his book cases in a panic, pulling tomes from the shelves and either discarding them on the floor or piling them in his arms, dropping the chosen collection at his desk and beginning to flip frantically through them. “I can’t be the only creature that changes its shape,” he insists without looking up from his fervent task when he becomes aware of her presence behind him. “That,” he all but snarls, “is **_not_** Sigyn.” _It can’t be Sigyn_ , he thinks, but can’t find the courage to speak. _Sigyn loves me_.

“Loki…” His mother begins, gently, her hand coming to rest again on his shoulder.

“No, no, you don’t understand,” he continues, wild with dread, “that means I **_left_** her in Midgard. She could be— Something **_has_** her—!”  He’d seen her back, if the thing’s a huldra it was still his Sigyn when she got dressed. He can’t think of when he’d taken his eyes off of her, but she sneaks, doesn’t she? She wanders off without meaning to; she always has, even from him—

His mother hushes him, one hand smoothing down his hair, soothing.

“I have her bow,” he insists, too engrossed in his spiralling thoughts to care how thick his voice has become, “it’s her prized possession. I have it, and the arrows she made with her mother. She hasn’t asked for it back, she would **_never_** leave those—”

“It’s her, sweetheart,” his mother says softly, “I swear to you: that is Sigyn Helgadóttir, safe and sound. I would know if she were not.”   

His breaths shake, hands curling into fists against the book he has thrown open to an entry on nøkker. A violent sweep of his arm sends the books crashing to the floor. “Then **_why_** —?” his voice fails him and his mother pulls him against her, reassuringly. He’s humiliated, throat tight and eyes burning, fighting tears like some pathetic **_child_** , and he tries to pull away to save his dignity, but his mother has none of it, shushes him again, and he surrenders, accepts her comfort.

“Sometimes things just don’t turn out the way we hope they will. I’m sorry, Loki.”

He stays that way until he manages to regain his composure, though the sickly hollow feeling persists, its icy claws sunk deep into his heart. “Here,” he says finally when his mother feels he’s ready to be left alone and moves to leave. Loki draws the bow and quiver from the negative space, and leaves it with her.

Sigyn is thereafter always in his mother’s company. She doesn’t shadow her endlessly the way the highborn girls of the court do, but she flits, back and forth, from one task to the next, lighting only occasionally to sit with them for a time when his mother invites her, before she’s off to something else.

The Queen **_lends_** her to the Great Hall on some busy evenings, provided Frigga herself has no need of her, Sigyn is willing, and that Fimafeng understands, in no uncertain terms, that she does not answer to him anymore. She attends to the tables just below the dais, and he’s able to catch her eye once, just for an instant— all he does is look at her, and she immediately turns to leave. 

He tries again, and again.

She’s like a wisp of fairy fire that recedes when he tries to follow, leads him along like a wayward traveller, but still he tries. He checks their hiding places, and the gifts he leaves are untouched. His letters return to him unopened.

No joke, no trick, no verse, no clever play of words will move her beyond a polite smile and a hasty retreat— until the day he tries as Fandral.

It’s a foolish impulse, but once he’s had it he can’t rid himself of the idea until he indulges it, and to his momentary delight and then horror, she greets him eagerly, is all too happy to chat about their classes and listens, rapt, to tales of their party’s travels.

When he returns, she tells him, she’ll want to hear all about Vanaheim.

As Volstagg, she begs him to take her hunting when he next goes.

When he’s each of the Vanir boys in turn, she greets them warmly, welcomes them to Asgard. She asks questions of their homeland, and inquires after to their comfort here in hers. She’s heard that Vanir archery is done differently, she tells then excitedly, and asks each if they might be able to show her how. As both, he has to tell her ‘some other time.’ Hogun is harder. Theoric relies on the Allspeak to transmit his meaning flawlessly, but the other boy is determined to actually learn the Asgardian tongue, and his words come out slowly, uncertain, and few (though Loki gets the sense that even in Vanir he says little). Sigyn beams, praises his efforts. _It… very good… than this person’s Vanir,_ she tries, struggling around the unfamiliar tones. 

He dreads trying as Thor. If she’s herself with Thor…

His resolve lasts a week.

“And to you, Your Highness!” she replies when ‘Thor’ bids her good morning, her smile as bright and warm as summer sun. It takes every ounce of his willpower not to ask about himself. _What terrible thing has my brother done to draw your ire? How might he win back your affection? Mercy, please— he’s suffered enough._

He manages an innocent conversation: brief, friendly, no mention of Thor’s vexing little brother.

It’s agony, an arrow to the heart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is, THE INCIDENT. 
> 
> This is another one that got way out of hand with how long it was. There are a few scenes that will be part of the chapter after next that were originally included here. I had to cut a bunch of stuff because writing Sigyn and Loki being adorable happy babies is like my favourite, and oops I don't get to do that anymore. I may have some cut stuff on my tumblr, GeminiJackdaw :D 
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who's commented, I really appreciate the encouragement! And thank you to everyone who's read this far, I sincerely hope you're enjoying.


	8. The Chariot

The Statesman, Somewhere in Space, 2018 AD

 

Everything is upside-down when he cracks his eyes open.

Loki is disoriented for a moment as the room swims back into focus. He doesn’t think he’s lost any time, just the initial shock of the impact, and taking stock of his condition finds him unharmed, just uncomfortable— caught, sprawled over something— a pile of now-dented metal storage containers.

A warm hand slips behind his neck, gentle pressure helping him to his feet. He begrudgingly accepts, but even with Sigyn’s help, there’s no graceful way out of this position, and he ends up sliding to the floor. Loki picks himself up with as much dignity as he can manage, and adjusts his clothing with a sharp tug.

“Are you hurt?”

“He’s done worse.”

The second he’s on his feet, Sigyn retreats as far as the small space will allow, and it’s only then that he realizes how closely she had knelt beside him, how familiar it had been to have her worrying over him— but then it’s gone. “Thank you,” Loki says, eyeing her guardedly. He fiddles with a loose fastener at the collar of his leathers on his way to the exit, a little breathless, thoroughly humiliated. 

“Your Highness is most welcome,” she says without looking over.

He feels his jaw tighten. “You know,” he replies, prodding experimentally at an access panel beside the door, “that’s beginning to sound awfully sarcastic.”

“It is not meant to, Your Highness.” _Norns, it’s like talking to Heimdall._

The door shudders in its housing, but doesn’t move, either broken or stuck. He tries, to no avail, to shoulder the door open.  When he presses his ear to its surface, there’s heavy, rumbling breathing on the other side: the Hulk’s parked himself to barricade the doorway.

Unless he can find another way out, they’re not going anywhere until the Hulk allows it.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Sigyn asks from her corner as he begins scouring the room for a potential escape.

“Fantastic.” He takes another frantic lap around the tiny room, scrabbling at the walls wherever the piecemeal metal of the Sakaaran craft looks promising. Nothing budges. “I just love being confined in small spaces,” he snaps, “how fortunate for me that it keeps happening.”

Between the cloying heat and the grating noise it’s clear they’re close to the ship’s main engine, and there’s no telling if something important, fragile, or explosive might be on the other side of any given point in the wall. He contemplates a tiny air vent by the ceiling; small enough to slither through, but with his luck he’d get stuck, scalded by exhaust coming off of the furnace, or jettisoned into the vacuum of space— again.   

Loki snarls in frustration, kicking at the door hard enough to dent the metal. From the other side, an even stronger blow beats a massive crater into the door with a ringing thud that sends Loki skittering inelegantly back against the far wall like a startled cat.

Loki regains his composure and clears his throat, straightens his clothing and hair again, once he’s sure the Hulk isn’t about to come crashing through the door— which, judging from the shape of it, won’t be able to slide open anymore, anyway. Just perfect.

Sigyn’s tucked against the wall like she thinks she can hide from him. He sighs, and shoves one of the metal crates towards her with a push of his leg. “Here,” he says, taking a seat on another, “it may be a while.”

She doesn’t answer, but very neatly accepts, still turned away, not enough that her back is to him, but as close to it as she can get while still pretending to be polite.  “I didn’t put him up to this,” he says after a minute of terse silence, “if that’s what you’re thinking.” No response. She sits quietly, her expression distant and troubled. She’s weighing some thought, and her hands, first folded neatly in her lap, drift to comb through her hair.

Loki throws one leg over the other, crosses his arms across his chest, then lets his eyes slip shut and his consciousness drift, searching for the familiar pull of his brother’s magic. “Damn it,” he hisses when he finds him.

He’s next looking around the room where he’d first found Thor, quarters the Asgardians had left their king, one of the only rooms not stripped of anything soft or useful for the great communal campsite in the main hall. Thor is passed out on the cabin’s bunk, breath deep and peaceful, and sprawled over the couch is the Valkyrie. There go both of the people on this ship capable of moving the Hulk.

“Thor,” he calls loudly, his apparition stalking over to his brother’s bedside. “Thor, wake up!” His brother sleeps like a rock. He pulls for his magic, tries to send something heavy flying his way, but he manages something like a stiff breeze instead. He can’t channel second-hand like this, not with the well from which he draws so distant, so greatly diminished in the void of space.

He screams directly into the Valkyrie’s ear, and she does stir. She actually looks at him, though her eyes are unfocused, and she rolls over, pulls a cushion down over her head before settling back down. “Hey. Boozehag, listen to me!” She gropes for another pillow, hurls it through the apparition without ever lifting her head.

The storage room is as he left it, though Sigyn is watching him with a guarded interest. She quickly returns her attention to the contents of a nearby shelving unit when he catches her. 

“That’s perfect. Just pretend I’m not here; you have so much practice.” That makes her flinch, and he almost feels guilty. Almost.

They sit in uncomfortable silence, Loki watching as Sigyn grows increasingly restless. He’s gotten used to boredom, long hours in cramped places with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling, but he was always alone, before. Shared, he’s far more aware of how small the space is, and her visible unease is setting him on edge. He rests his head in his hand and tries to think of some way to pass the time, perhaps distract his reluctant cellmate.

He certainly remembers what used to work. He thinks for a moment, studying her carefully. “Here must we both wait, ‘till,” he begins, “Heimdall thinks to look, else” he pauses, “my useless brother wakes, moves this mossy mountain.”

It’s not his best work, but he has her attention. Sigyn’s hands still in her hair, and he can see her lips moving as she repeats it back to herself, counting the syllables. It’s only half a verse, and there’s a glimmer of hope for a moment when he thinks she may be formulating a reply. Her eyes flicker towards him, but she doesn’t respond. Loki sighs, rests back against the crates. “There was a time that was all I needed to do to get you speaking to me again,” he smiles humourlessly.

She’s silent for a long moment, and lets out a slow breath as if to calm herself, setting to twisting her hair into a single long plait. She answers after a moment, so quietly he might miss it if he weren’t waiting, “we thought you dead.”

“So sorry to disappoint.”

“Don’t,” She says softly, and she does look over at him then, just enough for him to see her face, brows knit together, expression almost desperate. “Thor was **_devastated_**. You died in his **_arms_** —”

“—and before my body would even have grown cold, he was back in the arms of his mortal woman. I saw him before he left, he **seemed** perfectly fine.” He’s aware now, that this wasn’t the case, but at the time, it had seemed plain enough that Thor would be better off as brother to a dead hero than a live problem.

“He left because of what **you** said to him!” she retorts, still just over her shoulder. Emotion’s moved her and her words gain certainty as she speaks, like momentum “To savour whatever cruel sliver of time he and Lady Jane had left together— but then he started having those awful premonitions, and...” she shakes her head, eyes slipping shut for a moment. “He drank to you, he cried for you, he kept a lock of your hair braided into his until it was taken from him. He felt he’d lost everything, but you were just… Just **_right there_** , while his heart was breaking—” she stops with another unsteady breath, her hands curling into the fabric of her skirt. “So, yes. I am angry about that.”

Loki drums his fingers against his thigh, and exhales noisily into the storeroom’s stale, stuffy air. He absolutely does not need her poking at the guilt that’s finally started to settle, but it’s also the most she’s said to him in a very, very long time, and he almost wishes she’d continue. Silence settles back between them, so deep he can hear heavy breathing through the door. The Hulk seems to have fallen asleep. 

“Where did he get it?” Loki says, finally.

She stops, blinking at him in confusion. “Pardon?”

“The hair. Where did he get it?”

“ ** _That’s_** what you took from this?”

“You want me to address your main point? Fine: excuse me for failing to consider the delicate moral sensibilities of someone who hadn’t spoken to me in hundreds of years before electing to **not** spend the four thousand I had remaining in a **_cage_** ,” he snaps. Her shoulders tense, shrinking in on herself as he hands return to her abandoned attempt at braiding, and twist nervously at her hair. He hates that his knee-jerk reaction is still to comfort her. Loki sighs. “I assure you that any sanctimonious diatribe you have ready, I’ll have already heard days ago, from Thor,” he continues, but his tone has softened, more sardonic than scathing. “So, as it’s the only new information you’ve given me, you’ll have to forgive me, I can’t seem to move past—” he crinkles his nose, perturbed.  “Was it was symbolic? Black thread, or horsehair? Because I’m certain I would remember him hacking a lock of hair off of my corpse—”

“—alleged corpse,” she adds quietly.

“—and as far as I recall, I hadn’t been leaving ** _hairballs_** all over Valaskjálf.”

A ghost of a smile flickers across her face, gone in an instant. “You do have some rather feline tendencies, Your Highness, but no, that isn’t one of them.’

“Oh? Pray tell, what would those be? Elegance? Grace?” The compulsive gifts he leaves her like a besotted tomcat?

Sigyn’s finally finished a braid to her satisfaction, and Loki watches from the corner of his eye as she draws a familiar gold hairpin from her apron pocket, twists the plait up out of the way, and fastens it in place. “You like knocking things over to watch them fall down.”

He’d be offended if he weren’t a little flattered, and chuckles at that, despite himself. “My mother kept cats,” he reminds her when she says nothing further. “I recall you being quite fond of them.”

He catches the barest hint of that same faint smile. “I was.” The soft expression fades, disquiet sinking in again, and he sees her conflicted. She reaches for the braid that isn’t there, then sets her hands back into her lap to smooth down the front of her skirts, and finally, her fingers slip down to curl around the edge of the metal crate. She takes a deep breath, and to his surprise, does turn to face him, though she keeps her eyes downcast.

“Your Highness,” she begins, “there… there is something, I need to… to confess, I suppose is the word,” her eyes flicker upwards for an instant, and her voice seems to catch in her throat. “I’m not sure how to— I mean, you’ve surely already noticed, but…” another deep steadying breath, and she squeezes her eyes shut. “When we evacuated the palace, there were only a few people in the dungeon,” she begins, “a few petty thieves awaiting trial, a pair sobering up from a particularly nasty altercation at an alehouse the night before, all very minor. They’re here with us now, I believe they all made it aboard safely, but, when the Einherjar asked me what was to be done, I... left…. Lorelei… in her cell.”  When her eyes blink open, they’re staring off into the middle distance towards the floor, sorrowful. 

“I didn’t….” it pours out in a torrent now, “I hadn’t meant it as revenge— I just wasn’t certain we could contend with her as well as whatever we were fleeing— and after everything she’d done to Sif, I couldn’t bear the thought of her escaping again, not because of me, **_again_** —”

She’s all but cowering, braced as though resigned to some horrible retribution. Whatever reaction she’s expecting, the laughter that seized him— a faint chuckle that devolves into a full-blown cackle— isn’t it, and she looks at him in shock.

“I’m waiting for the part that’s meant to upset me,” he says when he can breathe well enough to speak. “Sige, if you’ve got news you fear may send the recipient into a violent rage, perhaps a sealed room with no escape and no one to save you is not the best time to share it?” Actually, that’s given him an idea, and he mentally stows it away for later.  

“A few things,” He holds up a hand, counts on his fingers, “one: you had no idea that all of Asgard would be destroyed. Neither did I, until a few minutes before I did it. Two: I’m the one who put her back in there. Three: if anyone, besides myself, could find a way to capitalize on the apocalypse, it’s Lorelei,” his mouth quirks into a frown for a moment, “she may very well be skulking somewhere still, and four: after what she did to **_Sif?_** ” he says, incredulously. “Sige, after what she did to you, you’d have to be mad to let her out.” Loki looks down at his four raised fingers, quirks an eyebrow at his clenched thumb. “Feels as though there should be a five,” he quips, glancing over casually at her stunned expression.  She doesn’t quite believe him.   

“I’m realizing now that it was you who ordered her brought back alive…”

“Upholding the real Odin’s sentence,” he replies with an indifferent shrug. “Wasn’t out of any tenderness, I assure you— professional courtesy, maybe,” an amused little smile tugs at his lips. “Ah, here we go, five: Lorelei wanted to turn my brother into a mindless puppet. There **_was_** a time I considered that a deal breaker.” _Among other things._ What he can see of her expression is still that persistent concern, dangerously close to pity. “You thought I loved her.”

“She certainly seemed to think so,” Sigyn replies softly.

It takes him a moment to put together where she could possibly have gotten that impression, but… Oh Norns, of course— her sentencing. He rolls his eyes and sits back against the crates. He can still easily picture her spitting insults and curses until the collar was fit back into place, screaming uselessly in silent rage as she was dragged away.

“Please tell me I had more dignity than that. Not that you were present, of course.” He’s glad for that, now that he imagines it, relieved that Sigyn’s never seen him in chains.

“What I heard,” she begins carefully, “was flippant, and arrogant, and unrepentant,” she shifts uncomfortably. “Self-destructive,” she adds in a whisper.

“You must think me terribly callous,” he hums, another humourless smirk tugging at pale lips. Her eyes are still downcast, still turned away from him, but he’s really studying her now, and he sees it for what it is, what it always has been: fear. He should bite it back, but he doesn’t want to. The suspicion has been nagging at him for a long time, and as much as he dreads it, he wants it acknowledged. “But you’ve known I was a monster for a long while, haven’t you?” That startles her, eyes wide when she glances over in surprise, and he just nods, his smile tight. “It never did make sense. Holding a grudge for a thousand years over something stupid I did as a child— even I’m not that petty.”

It takes her a moment to realize what he means. “Midgard,” he prompts, and Sigyn shakes her head, her fingers curling tighter around the edge of the crate.

“I nearly lost my home that night, but… I know you appealed to your mother on my behalf. I was grateful.”

“Grateful,” he echoes with an incredulous breath of laughter.

“Was I ever unkind to you, Your Highness? Have I caused you some offence?” she takes a breath, then continues after a moment’s consideration. “I am a servant of your household. I behave accordingly.”     

He raises his eyebrows, nods, appraisingly. “Well, congratulations. It seems you’ve finally figured out lying— you’re terrible at it, by the way.”

“I’m **_not_** —”

“Explain Thor,” he replies, and that silences her again. “You were friendly enough with him after coming into my mother’s service.”  There’s a look of dawning horror on her face. She hadn’t realized he’d known, and she’s likely realized how. “Did you know?” She furrows her brow, questioning.

“Did you know?” he repeats more forcefully. “You were the same with everyone but me, and I could never understand it— but recently I’ve had a lot of time with little else to do but think, and dwell, and agonize, and I keep coming back to this: it was immediately after coming into my mother’s service that you suddenly couldn’t stand the sight of me.” He desperately wants to believe that his mother wouldn’t have done this to him, but the timing is too perfect to ignore— Perhaps by accident, perhaps she overheard something she shouldn’t have. “Did you **know?** ”

“No,” she insists, “no. I found out when everyone else did,” she lets out a nervous laugh, more disbelief than derision. “You really think ** _I_** could keep a secret like that? From you?”

“If you were ordered to,” Loki continues with that same grim smile. “It’s alright; I understand. I’ll never be able to look at myself the same way, I can only imagine how alarming it must have been, to realize you’ve been in the arms of one of the same monsters that killed your—”  

“Don’t you **_dare,_** ” she rounds on him so suddenly she seems to shock herself, and it’s the first time she’s really looked at him, her eyes wounded, distraught. “If we’re wary of you, it’s for reasons you’ve given us—”

“That explains the last ten years, not the **_thousand_** before it—”

“—do you really think any of us would shun you for something **_completely_** outside of your control—“

“ _Then WHY DID YOU?_ ”

The desperate outburst leaves Loki’s chest heaving as it tears itself from his throat.

Sigyn recoils, eyes wide, as the cry reverberates through the cramped metal chamber, and reflexively, her hand twitches towards her right boot. He remembers what she keeps there.

She looks so fragile, and a part of him recognizes this as the moment to go for the throat, to demand what he wants from her— answers, an apology, an acknowledgement of her abandonment, something, **_anything_** — but her eyes are on his, and he feels flayed open by that gaze, unbearably vulnerable. The rage that had seized him dies like a doused fire at the naked terror reflected in them.

There’s a rumble from the other side of the door, but nothing comes of it.

Sigyn tears her gaze away and stands stiffly, arms wrapped around herself, and crosses the cramped storeroom to the ruined door. “I’d like to leave, please,” she gives it a sharp rap with her knuckles that becomes a reluctant open-handed pounding when the Hulk fails to respond. “Please let me out,” she calls nervously when the hulk fails to respond. Her voice seems to catch in her throat, her fear hushing her, and she can’t quite get the beast’s attention through the sturdy metal door.

“Sige…” Loki entreats as he watches her panic, his expression softening. He cautiously rises to his feet, but doesn’t approach further. “Don’t… be frightened, please. I promise I won’t raise my voice to you again. I…” he holds his hands out, soothing, before he sighs and runs them over his face, back through his hair. She may have been admonishing, but at least she was **_seeing_** him, and Norns, if that isn’t all he’s wanted for longer than he cares to admit. That same appeasing smile finds its way back across his face. “I thought we were finally **_getting_** somewhere.”

He sees her shoulders tense, but she glances back at him.

“Go ahead. Shout at me, curse me— strike me, if it will bring you any kind of satisfaction. Just… don’t **_ignore_** me,” he finds her still watching him warily, but she’s at least turned away from the door. “I’d take ire over indifference any day.”  

The tension in her body unclenches, just enough that she isn’t drawn into a frightened ball, and her eyes drift downwards again, but she’s at least facing him properly. “You had other friends,” she says, softly, “other…” 

“Thor had friends,” he corrects, “I had you.”

“We were _children_ ,” Sigyn continues, still speaking towards the floor, eyebrows pulled together, “we went our separate ways, and that was that, wasn’t it?”

 _Easier to let it burn._  

He supposes he can see where she may have gotten that impression; it was certainly the one he’d endeavoured to project— and illusion has always been his forte. 

“Was it?” It’s his turn to avert his eyes and say nothing more, let the silence speak what he can’t— and she must understand it, because the quiet distress in her eyes is deepening to near panic. 

“How often did you do that?” she asks after a moment of stunned silence, voice strained. “Approach me as other people?”

“Occasionally,” he replies. “I said hello. I said goodnight. I’d ask what you were reading. Save a few… notable exceptions, it was never much but idle small talk.”

 “Were you ever—?”

 “—never while he was courting you.”

It does little to reassure her, her expression still caught in that quiet horror. “ _Why_?” she breathes, desperate.

Loki lets out a slow breath, folds his arms across his chest—defensive, not quite mirroring her fearful posture as he weighs the truth on his tongue. He already feels too exposed, that he’s revealed too much, and it’s won him no ground. Still, he pries his clenched jaw open and lets the admission slip free. “It was the only way you would speak to me.”

Her eyes slip shut, expression pained, voice dropped to barely a whisper. “Why are you doing this _now?_ ”

He simply watches her for a moment as he thinks. She’s battered and exhausted, amber eyes ringed with dark circles that bring to mind the morning of Thor’s coronation. He takes in the ripped, muddied hem of her favoured-yellow dress and what might well be bloodstains dried in spatters across it, the last hints of healing cuts and bruises marring her skin— the traces of the calamity she’s endured, how narrowly she’s evaded Death’s relentless grasp.  A little vixen backed against a precipice. 

It’s not the first time he’s nearly lost her— not the first time he’s had to confront the certainty that— despite his best efforts— he still wishes she were his to lose.

“The world ended,” he says finally. “I had hoped that was reason enough.”

Sigyn’s breath catches, her lips moving like she may be about to speak, but she seems to reconsider, retreating back into miserable silence, her every muscle taught, looking very much ready to bolt and with nowhere to go.

For all his sniping earlier, it’s true that as fiercely as he hates it, he has grown familiar with confinement. He’s been trapped in worse places for far longer, and in this instance, at least, he knows it’s only a matter of time before the Hulk loses interest or Thor comes looking. Sigyn may be used to tight accommodations, her rooms at the palace no bigger, but cozy becomes claustrophobic quickly when you can’t leave. 

The oppressive, stale heat seeping through the metal walls doesn’t seem to be bothering her as much as it is him— Loki’s hair’s grown damp with sweat, and he’d consider unfastening the collar of his leathers if it would do any good (he finally realizes why it never made much difference how much clothing he piled on)— but the plodding, grating rumble of the engines is incessant and seems to reverberate through his bones.

Be it the heat, the noise, the confinement, or his presence, whatever the reason, she’s in obvious distress.

“If you’re willing to work with me I believe I can get us out of here.” He sighs, trying to push aside his frustration, and immerse himself instead in something productive. It’s not an unfamiliar situation. At its core, this is a variant of a classic prison escape, and if he can enlist her he could enact several of the solutions he and Thor had come up with over the years. It’s a sealed room, and their jailer is at least somewhat benevolent, so— well, at least some **_version_** of the cell fight, or…. he supposes this would be a time for the relevant variant of Get Help—

“What is ‘Get Help’?”

He’s been muttering under his breath as he thought, and hadn’t realized she was paying attention. She’s eyeing him cautiously, but she’s looking at him. Of course, Sigyn never travelled with them, she’s not familiar with their shorthand. As much as he’d love to withhold an answer out of spite, leave her baffled and grasping as he is, this will be far easier with her assistance.

“You find yourself in the same kind of situations, over a millennium,” he begins with a shrug, “you come to find reliable approaches for handling them, Thor liked to give them clever names to communicate the idea more easily. In this case, there’s either myself, or the two of us, if you’re as eager to get out of here as I am. We’ve got one…. Entity watching us, who I assume cares somewhat for our wellbeing. An important distinction. A lot of these only work if the guards care that you’re killing each other.”  Her expression grows perturbed, and he raises a hand to indicate she wait. “Often, Thor and I would stage a fight, or an illness or injury, or one leading into the other. When the guards come in to break it up or remove—” _me_ , he almost says, it was always him _, “—_ the ailing party, we made our move.”  

“How might I be of assistance?” She’s calm, and he’s struck by the casual curiosity in her tone. It might well be the most relaxed he’d seen her, knowingly in his presence, in a decade, and he’s struck by it. It’s the kind of attentive expression she’d given him months into posing as Odin, once her initial apprehension had finally abated in earnest.

He indicates the door with a nod of his head. “Keep doing what you were doing, but more loudly. Call for help. If he thinks I’ve harmed you, I’m certain he’ll tear the door down.”

“But you haven’t, though,” her brows furrow.

“Sigyn,” he rolls his eyes, “it’s not lying, it’s **_acting._** ”

“But what of you?”

Loki takes in a breath, shrugs. “It’s fine, I may have to lay low for a long while afterwards, but I’ll be ready, this time,” he’s certainly sounded more convincing

“What do you mean _this time?_ ” She stops, blinks at him. “Earlier, you said he’d done **worse—** I… do not think I like this plan,” she says, then adds as a hasty afterthought, “with all due respect, Your Highness.” She shifts, slowly lets her arms down, to rest at her sides. They twist into her skirts again, but it’s less like she’s trying to shield herself from him. “I’m able to wait, if the alternative sets you at odds with…” her mouth quirks to the side as she thinks. “What… what is he, exactly?” Sigyn asks delicately, with a guilty flicker of her eyes towards the door. “Is ‘Hulk’ his name or a title?”    

“It’s… both, I think,” he raises an eyebrow at her apparent concern. “And I suppose he’s human, more or less, though a rather unique one. Imagine a grasshopper becoming a locust, were that change accompanied by a six-hundred-percent increase in mass. Hulk is what he calls himself, in that form. The rest of the time, he’s a meek little Midgardian fellow named Bruce.”

She frowns at him, but there’s no malice in it. “You’re making that up.”

Loki can’t help the little smirk that pulls at his lips. “If I were making it up it would be plausible.” He swears he sees a hint of an answering smile. “I’ll try Thor again. If he’s still out I’ll find someone else to wake him.” She nods, relieved, much happier with that plan than the former.

It’s just as he relaxes, reaches out with his seidr that he finds Thor immediately, right outside, and a loud bang makes Sigyn jump as another dent appears in the metal, bending it away from the frame enough to see into the hallway. A broad hand slips through the grasp and with an ear-splitting groan of metal on metal, the door is wrenched away entirely and a flood of blessedly cool air rushes into the room.

“Nobody set me on fire,” Thor says as he pokes his head into the room. Loki quirks a brow at the remark, but apparently it wasn’t meant for him, as it’s Sigyn who answers.  

“I feared you were a _Svartalf_ …” she says sheepishly as Thor steps inside, and he catches sight of Heimdall farther into the hangar, and the Hulk peering inside as though to study the results of his experiment in forceful reconciliation.

“I’ve uh… I’ve had a talk with the Hulk about grabbing people,” he says, glancing back at the creature over his shoulder. “Hulk, what do you say?” The Hulk grumbles something and Thor prompts him again.  
  
“HULK SORRY,” he says reluctantly, stomping away before anyone has a chance to react. 

“Sorry about that. Heimdall just woke me,” Thor says with an uncertain smile when he turns back to them, his eye sweeping the room as if to be sure neither’s stabbed the other during the wait. “Are you both alright?”

“Fine, though I can speak only for myself.” Loki wastes no time in escaping the makeshift cell. “If you’ll excuse me,” he stays curtly as he shoulders his way past his brother, relieved when no one tries to stop him. He spares one disparaging glance at their Gatekeeper in passing before his long, purposeful strides carry him away.

Thor hums to himself, frowning in concern as he watches Loki go. Sigyn, for her part, seems almost dazed, frozen in the center of the room, and he approaches her carefully. “Are you certain you’re alright?” She nods, but it’s hesitant.

Thor’s smile becomes more of a wince. “Sigyn, I should apologize— I didn’t… say anything, but I may have encouraged him…”

Her shoulders heave as she lets out a breath, looking a little more herself when she turns to him, and braves a timid smile. “I’m well, Your Majesty, it’s just… it’s one thing to talk about it, and another having him just… right there, in front of me.” She hugs herself a bit tighter.

“I know, and I know I should have consulted you first. I was just so caught up in the joy of his return to us, and I got carried away…” though apologetic, Thor’s grim widens, and she replies with a warm, gentle smile of her own at his obvious heartfelt relief. “It’s him, Sigyn. Truly,” he promises her, “more himself than I fear he has been in a very, very long time.”  

She rests a reassuring hand against his bicep, her smile rueful. “And truly, I am delighted that you’ve found one another again. Now, I’m sure Your Majesty is very busy,” she gives his arm a friendly pat as she pulls away, and his smile falls to a glum sigh, because yes, yes he is. He’d caught a bit of rest and now has that many hours’ catching up to do. “Don’t hesitate to ask if there’s anything else I can do for you,” and with that she too drifts from the open storeroom and Thor sets off after his brother.

He’s relieved to find Loki easily, pacing outside the room they’ve been sharing, where Brunnhilde is still dozing on the couch. He’s agitated, fidgeting in a way Thor recognizes as pent-up nerves, his brow creased in thought.

“Hulk thought he was helping.” Thor smiles awkwardly when Loki looks up and glares at him, like if he’s cheerful enough the withering look with abate. It doesn’t. “So… did it?” he asks innocently, and Loki’s scowl deepens. “Help, I mean.”

“No,” his brother’s voice is clipped and scathing. “No, it absolutely did not,” he lets out a strained breath through a tight jaw, the thumb of one hand sinking deep into the palm of the other. “I lied to her.”

“What?” 

“The horrible, unforgivable thing I did as a child,” Loki confesses with a wry expression caught somewhere between humiliation and humor. “I lied to her. When I snuck us down to Midgard, she’d asked me to have her home in time for work, but I was having so much fun, and so was she, and…. I just… told her we had plenty of time. She trusted me, I betrayed that trust, and the evening wore on later and later... and when we got back, night had fallen…” Thor furrows his brows in confusion and Loki shrugs. “Do you remember the first gala celebrating the victory in Vanaheim? The impromptu one?”

“The day Hogun came to us,” Thor says, suddenly struck by a realization. “I remember now!” he exclaims with a chuckle, “So _that’s_ where you’d been all day.”

Loki nods. “She’d been missing all through the frantic preparations. It… wasn’t the first time I’d gotten her in trouble, always minor things, but Sigyn was summarily dismissed from the household staff. Mother intervened, but… she was never the same with me again. She was with you, though, wasn’t she? The same as she ever was, though I suppose it was more distant over time,” he raises one eyebrow. “Since when are the two of you so familiar again?” 

“It’s… recent,” Thor says, thoroughly puzzled by the rest of the explanation. “Loki, that’s…”

“I did tell you it was stupid.”

“I can see her being annoyed, certainly, or anxious for a time, but… ” he shakes his head.

“I know,” Loki says, “I was never able to understand it. And then recently, everything fell into place, and it made perfect sense, that she’s somehow stumbled across… well, the truth of me. It was horrible, but at least I **_understood_** , I…” His little brother’s bright eyes, as changeable as the rest of him (they’re blue as his own in the ship’s harsh white light) slip shut as he shakes his head, incredulous. “She claims not to have known. I’m not certain that I believe her.”

“Believe her, brother,” Thor assures him. “I’m the one who told our friends what had transpired. She was shocked as anyone— and horrified for you,” he adds gently as he rests a heavy hand on Loki’s shoulder, “not of you.”

He feels his brother go taught beneath his grasp. “You just had to tell everyone,” he mutters, still shamed at the thought.

“It went a long way towards explaining your behaviour.”

“Ah,” a familiar spiteful smile flickers across his face, “that I was a vicious monster in an Aesir skin?”

“That you were **_reeling_** from it,” Thor corrects, hurt tinging his voice at his brother’s dismissal, but at least Loki seems to reconsider, his expression softening. “Besides,” Thor adds, nudging him with a hopeful smile, “you’re the one who put it in your play.”

He smiles for a moment, but it’s fleeting, his thoughts still clearly elsewhere. “Yes, well. Secret was out, might as well try to spin it,” and then he’s quiet for a long, thoughtful moment.

“I still don’t understand it,” Loki says, more to himself than to Thor, “but I admit I did make quite a nuisance of myself afterwards. I suppose she realized I wasn’t worth the trouble,” He shakes his head again, still wringing his hands, and moves to wander away.

Thor can remember a number of incidents soon after Hogun had joined them that look different in retrospect, if that’s when their falling out had occurred. Loki had been irritable for a time, something he’d just attributed to typical teenage anguish, but it had abated soon enough, and… and eventually Loki had gone back to his withdrawn, sullen self. _Had he been that way before?_ Thor finds himself wondering, already certain of the answer. _Never to that extent._ It had happened so slowly Thor had never thought anything amiss as Loki had pulled away from them, drawn inward.

He’s torn as he watches his brother leave, not sure if it’s better to leave him his space or save him from his own lonely thoughts, but Loki stops on his own, whirling around with a sudden look of wry humor.

 “What’s this about being set on fire?”

 

* * *

 

 

She doesn’t go back to work, not immediately. The chamber behind her is alive with activity, every soft or warm scrap of bedding or fabric the survivors of Asgard and Sakaar have been able to scavenge from around the ship put to use where they’ve settled, but she hears them as though distantly as her mind wanders, feeling very much alone despite the crowded space.

She’d been trying to reassure herself, as looking out always has before when she’s felt too penned-in within the city, but this is not the windows at home, not the Queen’s balcony looking out into fresh air and mountain ranges or the verdant Plains of Ida. It’s somehow so much worse peering out and seeing endless, icy, inky nothing, how it would be to— Sigyn shudders, tries to force the thought away. 

The points of light crawl by so slowly it’s like they’re standing still. It feels so fragile, their ramshackle little craft, bearing the force of all that emptiness, and it does nothing to sooth her racing heart.

She’s been lingering too long at the bridge, off to the side a respectful distance from their makeshift throne, when she feels the familiar weight of someone’s gaze upon her, and finds molten eyes reflected in the boundless darkness. 

 “Hello, Sir Gatekeeper,” Sigyn says, trying to smile despite the unease still crawling up her spine, wills her breathing even. “Am I in your place?”

“Room enough for two,” he assures her, a smile in his tone as he takes his familiar waiting stance beside her, looking out over the cosmos. “What troubles you?”

“The crushing void of space,” Sigyn sighs, and rests her head against the chilled something-like-glass of the viewport, then adds more quietly, “the times Theoric found me funny.” Her eyes slip shut, and she lets out another slow breath, the warmth from her lungs fogging the icy window. “He’s been doing that for a long time. _Why?_ ”

“In my experience,” Heimdall’s low voice is even, patient, still lit with a kind of prodding humor, “most seek out another’s company because they enjoy it.”

“You knew.”

“I look for threats to Asgard, from without and within. All else I observe is not mine to divulge.”

“It wasn’t meant as an accusation,” she says, cracking an eye open and shifting to face him, her shoulder against the window, the universe still flowing slowly past in her peripheral vision. “I understand. I just… can’t fathom how you do it,” her voice drops again as her heart sinks. “All those secrets, everyone’s pain and sorrow. I would surely go mad.”

He laughs, a single soft, rumbling chuckle, and smiles. “I am charged with a grave duty,” he admits, “but I see the good, as well, and guide it along when I can.  I am not a completely passive observer. I know my duty, but it is no secret that I have been known to… interpret my oaths creatively, when I feel it is necessary… as do you, on occasion,” his smile stretches a touch wider. “Or are you always in the habit of leaving blankets and water skins and pies in the forest?”

“I’m very forgetful,” Sigyn says, smiling. “No law against forgetting things— and I’m hardly the only one. So many of us in the palace suddenly found ourselves compelled to leave things unattended. Not for you, of course, you wouldn’t need the help.”

“You used your judgement,” he says, “just as I would be doing if I were to tell you that our Prince is currently in the hangar contemplating the pilot’s seat of that much faster Sakaaran vessel he so fancies.”  

Sigyn sits up abruptly, but she bites back what she had wanted to say and sinks a tooth into her lip. “Should you not tell His Majesty?” she says instead.

“It’s Thor he’s avoiding,” the Gatekeeper says simply. “His Highness might find it helpful to have someone else to speak with...” He looks over, his gaze meaningful.

Sigyn shakes her head, just stares back at him in quiet dismay.

Heimdall seems to consider her reluctance, nods and then looks back to her, an eyebrow raised. “I believe you had appointed yourself a task. Why did you stop?”

“I…” she begins, “I needed assistance from someone who…” She stops dead as the thought completes itself, looks back at Heimdall in alarm. He’s smiling at her, steady, encouraging. Sigyn thinks for a long moment, eyes darting nervously as she turns the thought over in her mind, but it’s just a quiet worry, nothing deeper, and when she lets out the breath she’s holding it comes back to her easily. “Thank you,” she just barely remembers to tell Heimdall before wandering away, face still rested nervously in her hand, breathless and distracted. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Loki sinks back into the seat, lolling back against the headrest. He’s finally found something like solitude away from the school–of-fish-like throng of warm bodies crammed into the _Statesman_ — if only it didn’t provide a view straight down the gullet of the yawning black maw threatening to swallow him whole.

He’s had enough of that for a lifetime.

He lets his eyes slip shut, lets his hands curl around the controls— control, he reminds himself, the difference between flying and falling.

It’s just as he feels himself start to drift off again that a sound startles him awake. A reflexive sweep of the surroundings with his magic recognizes the feel of her at the same time as her voice registers— that warm, bright flicker of energy that always feels dampened when she’s near him, like she’s trying to smother herself down to embers. 

“Excuse me, Your Highness? Are you there?” There’s a hesitant rap of her knuckles against something metal, the sound coming up through the hatch from the hangar below.

Oh good, he thinks. He’s fallen asleep.

Oh no, he realizes. It’s going to be one of _those_ dreams, the insidious kind that give him a taste of something he’s wanted just to tear it away when he wakes. It’s the promise of disappointment, but not a nightmare at least, not yet, and he supposes he should take his small mercies where he can find them, enjoy his own pleasant lie to himself while it lasts.   

“Your Highness?” the voice calls again, a bit louder, a bit more apprehensive. “May I come up?”

If he were dreaming, she’d be using his name.

“Yes,” he finds himself calling back, brows furrowed, clearing his throat when he hears how uncertain it sounds. He regrets it immediately, all he had to do was keep quiet, conceal himself with his magic had she decided to look around, but it’s too late now. There’s a creaking of metal— the rickety ladder embedded in the hangar wall— and he can trace her progress as she climbs it, then as she pulls herself through the hatch. He’s distantly aware that the polite thing would be to help her up, and it must be how that thought calls up the memory of his mother’s voice, the way she’d remind him of his manners as a child, that sees him stand, when she appears in the cockpit doorway.  He rises abruptly, catching himself with a hand as he nearly collides with the sloped glass, and she takes a reflexive step away, but doesn’t flee further.

“Your Highness,” she greets, eyes lowered.

“Lady Helgadóttir,” he responds just as stiffly, an expectant eyebrow raised.  “Do you attend some errand for my brother?” It’s the only reason he can imagine that she might seek him out, the same way she’d demurely call upon him then scurry away the moment she was free to do so whenever his mother bid her fetch him or relay some message.

To his surprise, she shakes her head. Sigyn lingers for a moment, takes a deep breath as though to steel herself, and her lowered gaze drifts past him, raised just enough to consider the pilot’s seat beside him. “I’m… not very clear on where things are, relative to one another, in space., but… Alfheim might be nice,” she begins. “Alfdis always did so like you, and the Elven sense of humor being what it is….” She shrugs.

Loki inclines his head. “Are you suggesting I leave?”

“No, Your Highness,” she replies immediately. “No. Only that some places might be safer for you than others, if you were to. Especially without His Majesty to vouch for you.”

“If I were to settle somewhere, it would not be as myself, I assure you.”

“In that case, if I may be so bold as to suggest His Highness avoid Kree occupied territory. If they see you change your shape, they’ll think Skrull, not seidr.”

Despite himself a little smile plays across his lips. “And if I meant to die of boredom, my lady, there are nearer places than Hala.” This is very nearly a conversation. There’s a wariness tempering his curiosity, there to safeguard him from inevitable disappointment, but he gestures to the co-pilot’s seat, offers it to her as he sinks back into his own.

Sigyn pauses to take in the strange, bold colours of the interior, but does eventually sit, not seeming to like the view it offers any better than he had, her eyes caught helplessly scanning the empty expanse before them. “I’ve never travelled this way before,” she says quietly, gaze still affixed to the void. “I don’t think I care for it. I used to love the view from the Observatory, but…” Her arms wrap around herself as she sinks back into the seat.

“As did I. Not really a fan, anymore,” Loki says, similarly caught up in the abyss overhead, around, below— _falling, falling, unending, cold and disoriented, alone and helpless, waiting for, **begging** for death to claim him_—

Loki shakes his head, sits up a little straighter, and reflected in the glass he can see Sigyn watching him, a hand to her lips, horror in her eyes, because she realizes where his thoughts have taken him. He forces a smile, notes the hasty way she averts her eyes when he looks over, and lets his hands find the controls again. “It doesn’t feel like much,” he says as he drums his fingers against the steering column, “but the thing we have is the thing we need, to contend with all this,” a wave of his other hand indicates the whole of space. “It’s a little… garish, but it is a _very_ nice ship.”   He glances at her from the corner of his eye, and a familiar mischievous impulse coaxes his lips into a grin. “Hey,” he says, voice low, conspiratorial, “let’s take it for a spin.’

“What? _No_ ,” she replies, shaking her head, and he can almost hear it, the way she’d respond whenever he threatened to do something absurd to make her smile as a child, the laughter in her voice— _Loki, no._ She doesn’t seem quite certain, anymore, that he doesn’t mean it. 

“Oh come on,” he prods, “I’m an excellent pilot. Travel by spacecraft can be a great deal of fun if you aren’t moving at a snail’s pace. It would be a shame if this dull journey put you off it forever,” he pauses, raises his eyebrows, tempting.

 “Oh I’ve heard,” she replies, very nearly smiling. “I fear your flying may well take a few decades off of my life. Anything beyond Hófvarpnir at a gallop is… a lot, for me.”

“I’ll let _you_ fly it,” he singsongs. 

Sigyn stifles a laugh, and she is smiling now, down at her hands clasped in her lap. “I don’t know to fly anything,” she admits. “Sif tried to show me how to pilot a Skiff once— _once_. I’m not sure our friendship would survive a second attempt; I was driving her mad.”

“How so?”

“Well, first and foremost I was terrified of the accelerator,” the smile grows bashful as she tracers her fingers over one of the buttons before her on the console, “and I kept asking what everything _did_ …”

She recoils at the warning sound he makes, hand shooting back into her lap and he lets out a soft chuckle. “Usually, on _any_ other vessel, I would be all in favour of infuriating levels of curiosity. I imagine the dashboard is safe, but I would generally avoid touching… anything.” It’s why he’d set up here, and not the more spacious sitting area in the back.

“Why?” she says, eyes widening, “is it dangerous?”

“No, no, just…”  He grimaces, “Trust me. I’m far more familiar than I’d like with the habits of the previous owner. You would not want to know.”

“That is not reassuring.”

He doesn’t have a better answer, but it’s still a more comfortable silence that settles between them now, and he’s torn, whether or not to trust this little glimmer of potential. He thinks of the last few moments in the supply closet, the moments before she pulled away the morning of Thor’s coronation, that fragile soap bubble around the feelings of days gone by, before she _remembers_. “I’m not… plotting my escape, you know,” he says finally. “Daydreaming about it, certainly, but… not plotting.”

“I am glad to hear that,” she replies quietly. “It means a great deal to Thor that you’re here.”

“Hence,” he replies simply, gestures to himself and his continued presence. Loki sighs, and with some difficulty in the cramped space, throws one long leg over the other. “If my brother hasn’t sent you, what are you doing here?”                                                 

She lets out a slow breath of her own, scrubs at her face with her hands, and one rests at her shoulder as though she might be thinking of taking her hair down only to fuss with it. “I wanted to apologize,” she says, “for earlier. And…. Even _earlier_ , and well before that— I… You must know I would _never_ —” with that, it fails her entirely. “I hadn’t known…”  Her brow furrows. “Your Highness,” her voice has dropped away to near nothing again, “what is it you _want_ from me?” 

He thinks for a moment, aware of her eyes on him only when he looks away. He’s used to rejection, to being overlooked, ignored. Even from her, he’d grown used to it, the knife in his back fading to a dull ache, but recent days have torn that wound he’d thought long since healed back open as easily as snipping stitches. He’s never known her to run hot and cold— all one way, warm and welcoming through their childhood and then the other for the thousand years since, and this push-and-pull threatens to drive him to distraction.

 _Nothing,_ he wants to say, wants to turn her away, rebuff her on _his_ terms— but he thinks of Thor’s hopeful encouragement, the pains he’s taking to re-socialize him like a wounded animal. He thinks of the things he desperately wishes he could take back, now, the moments just like this one that he’ll replay, someday, and desperately wish he could do them over. And he thinks of how certain he had once been that Thor would never spare him another thought.

 _I hadn’t known,_ she’d said.

He settles for something that isn’t quite a lie, but falls short of the truth, something comfortable, and reasonable, and much better than the foolishness it disguises. “We were friends once,” Loki says finally, casually. “I had rather hoped we could be again.”

“I think... I think I can do that,” she smiles, looks over but still not quite at him. “Would…. Would that be helpful to you?” she sits up, sounding hopeful, and Loki can only frown incredulously.

“Helpful?”

“Helpful,” she echoes insistently. “If… you find yourself having thoughts you can’t share with Thor, I’d ask you come to me,” she offers. “Would… that help you stay?”

He looks over in earnest, an eyebrow raised. “So if I find myself fighting villainous impulses, I’m to seek you out to talk me down?” It’s a real question veiled in jest, but she doesn’t seem to find it funny. Sigyn’s smile falters, her attention falling back to her clasped hands.

“I’ve never thought you _villainous_ ,” she replies quietly. “Troubled, perhaps… but yes, that would be the idea. I would hope you’d be able to confide in me as you once did, any time you might need it. Everything that’s come to pass over the past few years has been… horrifying.”  Sigyn rests her face in her hands, lets out a despairing sigh. “Whatever happened in Midgard, the bifrost, that… that _thing_ from the vault—”

Loki sits up involuntarily, and he feels his mouth go dry. “From the vault?”

“The thing. The big _thing_ ,” she gestures helplessly, as far over her head as she can reach. Ah, that thing from the vault. Still, he takes a moment to check on the thing he has stored away in his preferred pocket of space, and finds it still shrouded in it’s ironclad layers of protection, better-warded than anything he’s ever attempted or encountered before.

“The Destroyer,” he offers, cringing, and her face falls back into her palms. The name really doesn’t help.

“You sent a thing called the Destroyer after your brother,” she laments, muffled through her hands.

He smiles, humourlessly, a little puff of air that isn’t quite a derisive snicker. “Not my proudest moment,” he admits.  Sigyn peeks back at him through her fingers, and for just an instant, what he sees there is something like heartbreak. “So,” he begins, deliberately lighter, “having used that thing myself, I can tell you with absolute certainty that not only did Odin know we were down there…” it doesn’t seem to help, and if anything she hugs herself closer. “There’s a problem with your plan.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm. If you’ll hear my wicked thoughts, I’ll start having more so I might share them with you.”  

“Well,” she says, “you’ll just have to tell me the good ones, too.”

“I’m not sure I have many of those. I’ve an _embarrassment_ of schemes, ploys and tricks, though.”

She smiles, a little. “Well, we’ve all our own gifts, and I trust you’re clever enough to find use of those for us rather than on us. I’d hear whatever you have to share with me.”  

“Are you sure of what you’re offering?” he asks, a humourless smile pulling at his lips. “Because clearly you were dissatisfied with our prior arrangement.”  He studies her as she falls silent, her lip caught between her teeth, a familiar unease in her eyes. “Sigyn,” he says, softly, “if you were unhappy… you could have said so.”

The breath she takes in through her teeth shudders, and her lips part for a moment, but she seems to reconsider. Sigyn’s silent for a painfully long moment, and finally, when she speaks again, it’s hesitant, looking away from him out to the stars. “Do you remember what you said to me, that day in Midgard? It was busy, there was only one server, I went to help and…” her eyes slip shut. “ _You don’t wait tables, here,”_ she swallows hard, a heartbroken little smile twitching at her mouth. “And then we went back to Asgard, where I…” her voice fails her.

Loki’s stomach lurches as he realizes what she’s saying, his brows furrowing. “Sigyn, that _never_ mattered to me—”

“It mattered.” She shifts uncomfortably, and it’s that look again, that restless panic like she wants to flee. “I… would never want to hurt you,” she says, barely a whisper. “I just… I just learned my _place_.”

He feels his jaw clench, his shoulders taught as he turns to her, but even through the tension, careless words slip out, unbidden, his voice strained. “There was a place for you at my side, if you had wanted it.”

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” is all she has in reply, so softly he nearly has to read it on her lips. She still can’t look at him. It’s not the truth, just something to placate his need for resolution, but it’s the answer she’s willing to offer, and everything in the pained desperation on her face is begging him to accept it.  

He sighs, tries to expel the tightness in his body with the expelled breath, and slumps back in his seat as he studies her, still perfectly miserable and frightened. “I do have to admit,” he says, “that if we were to wipe the slate clean…” he raises his eyebrows, conceding, “that works out **_heavily_** in my favour,” she looks over to find him smiling and blinks in surprise. “If your offer still stands, Lady Helgadóttir, I accept.”    

“It does, Your Highness.” Her expression brightens, and she nods, relief visible in her face though it takes a moment for the panic to abate entirely.  

“Loki,” he corrects. “If we’re going to be friends, you could at least use my name.”

It’s rueful but at least she’s smiling. “I can’t do that, Your Highness.” Her gaze stays trained on him thought, some thought weighting on her, until she finally speaks again. “I… was working on something. Might I request your assistance?”

Loki gives her a wry smile. “Ah, I see how it is. Everyone’s your friend when they _want_ something.”

Sigyn frowns, a little wounded, and moves to push herself from the seat. “Alright, fine, I’ll ask Lady Brunnhilde—”

“No. No,” he says immediately, springing to his feet, “what is it— I’ll do it.”   

She stifles a laugh as she eases herself around the cockpit’s seating and machinery to stand, and motions towards the hatch behind them. She starts for it, but Loki goes first to help her down when it’s her turn, her skirts gathered in one hand. She forgoes the ladder altogether, drops straight down as he had, and he catches her against him. She gasps, and he lets go immediately as Sigyn pulls back as quickly as if she’d been burned.  

Reflexively, an old fear resurfaces and he glances down at his hands— still his, still right— then the undamaged skin of her arms.

“Thank you— Sorry,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Sorry, still… still figuring some things out.” She forces a shaky smile. “This way, please.”   

She leads him from the hangar through the crowded main hall, and as they pass the dais, Heimdall turns just enough to smile at him on the way by.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to anyone who's stayed with me thus far. Thank you so much for reading, and to those of you who have commented, it means the world to me. Thank you for your time, and your encouragement. It keeps me going when I get frustrated and discouraged.
> 
> For those who haven't seen it, there's this theory going around that the black in Thor's braid in AoU is a strand of Loki's hair. I haven't been able to find any canon sourcing for that, but goddamnit I just love it so much.  
> Also, mentally I've been calling this "the chapter where you have to attempt skaldic poetry". Just.. pretend Loki is better at it than I am.
> 
> I had a bit of a crisis earlier and panicked over whether or not this story would be better done as a gen fic using entirely canon characters. I could feasibly make a much shorter, more streamlined version of this with either Val or Thor swapped in for just about anything Sigyn does, though the tone would be very different. It would be a lot more straightforward and also eliminates the conceit of asking the reader to care about something outside of the source material. I am very attached to this, and like the idea of writing a dumb cute love story, possibly more than makes sense, and more reasonable writers have suggested maybe making a canon edit afterwards instead of abandoning this altogether. If you're invested in this version of Sigyn, I'd be really interested to know, or would a gen fic following Loki through the same sort of story beats be more worthwhile? Thank you again!


	9. The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for this chapter: while nothing is explicitly shown, there's discussion of Lorelei using her immensely creepy mind-control powers to rape people. I've added a content warning for the whole story, but this is really the only place it shows up. I'm keeping the rating as Teen, because I don't think this is worse than what you'd seen on most crime shows, but If you'd rather skip this chapter for any reason, I'd recommend stopping at the segment that starts in 984 AD. I'll provide a brief summary of that section to the end at the end of the chapter.

981 AD, Vanaheim

 

A delegate from the Vanir capital is waiting with horses when the bifrost sets them down.

He and Thor have been, on diplomatic visits to meet with the Vanir royals, but he’s never had much chance to explore it. The forest is lush and green, and familiar enough to be mistaken for Asgard at first glance, though a closer look reveals subtle differences he can’t quite name. He knows someone who could.  He grits his teeth, ignores the sinking in his stomach and wills the thought away, focusing elsewhere. They’re not far from the edge of the wood, and through it’s dense and dark beside and behind, to one side along the road he can see the trees thin, giving way to immense yellow plains stretching off into the distance like a sea of windswept grass.

He tries to bring his borrowed mount alongside Thor, but the path is narrow and his brother has already set off, bordered by his friends, Sif and her horse taking the space beside him. Fandral’s seemingly paired off with Hogun, who barely speaks anyway, and Volstagg is too busy trying to keep track of them all to make conversation. That leaves Loki and Theoric side by side. He’s happy to talk, at least, though Loki’s never met anyone who could say so little in so many words. He half tunes-out Theoric’s babbling, which rarely leaves room for a reply anyway, until something catches his attention and his stomach lurches like his horse had tripped.

“Strange that Sir Volstagg left his daughter at home, isn’t it?”

Loki’s mouth quirks into a grimace. “I don’t know what you mean.” He does.

“Sif’s friend. The girl who attends your mother,” he begins, as Loki suspected he would. He’s not sure if it’s that Theoric doesn’t know her name, or that he assumes Loki wouldn’t. “I often see them together— or, is she a niece? A cousin?” His brow furrows, puzzled, when Loki informs him that they aren’t related. “They both have orange hair, though,” he muses. “Is that common among Aesir?”

“Not common,” Loki replies, “but not unusual, either.” There are usually one or two in a crowd, but personally he thinks of Volstagg, and Sigyn… and then he remembers Lorelei.

“How odd— it really grows like that? So many of you have yellow hair, I suppose it’s no stranger…” Theoric says mostly to himself, looking rather perturbed for a moment before his expression drifts to a dreamy smile. “No offence meant, of course,” he adds hastily, as though he’s being very generous, “she’s pretty all the same.”  

Loki studies him for a long moment, jaw tight, and concludes that he’d barely have to lean over to shove Theoric right off his horse. He doesn’t, but he thinks about it.

He ignores Theoric and tries to slither his way into the conversation going on ahead of him— Thor turns in his saddle to quip at Fandral behind him, and they laugh together, but he can’t seem to get their attention from the back. He’s not sure it matters where he is, it never seems to.  

He likes outings with his brother, just the two of them— laughing and joking, but even when they’re arguing, at least he’s **_seen_**.

It’s been like this for the past year. He makes jokes no one seems to hear, suggestions no one heeds. More than once, he turns, out of habit, to whisper to someone who isn’t beside him, but before, he’d be mentally filing those things away to grouse about with Sigyn afterwards, knowing she’d listen.

( _He lay back against his own bed, eyes closed, looking up at Sigyn’s ceiling. They didn’t both fit easily onto her bed, Loki sprawled towards the foot while Sigyn rested on her side, propped up on her elbow towards the headboard.  He wasn’t really there, but she always gave him space as though he was— a respectable distance he could have done without._

_“He sees you every day at home,” she eased when he’d finished telling her about their second trip to Midgard. The first time he’d been too excited to care, but it was inescapable now, how other he felt amid his brother and his friends. “He probably doesn’t even realize you were trying get his attention. You should talk to him. Here, **before** you’re off somewhere and he’s preoccupied.” _

_“No,” Loki groaned, resting his face in his hands. “No, it’s fine.”_

_Sigyn thought for a moment. “Do you want **me** to talk to him?” _

_“No!”_

_And while she agreed not to say anything about it to Thor, he couldn’t help but notice how Sif kept begrudgingly checking in with him through their next visit—)_

He still catches himself looking for things to bring back to her, trinkets and stories, but it’s a fleeting distraction now, rather than a mission. There’s nothing to distract him from the distance between him and the rest of the group.

The capital is Vanaheim’s largest permanent settlement, their preferred tents, which can be packed up and moved easily with the seasons, are found even here between low wooden buildings that stay year-round. Theoric bids them farewell as he breaks off from the group towards his family’s estate as they near the palace.

Theoric shakes his head vehemently when Thor tries to convince him to come along in the morning. “You’re all mad,” he tells them, smiling weakly. “Try not to die.” He gives Hogun a reproachful look, as though he should know better, bidding them good luck before turning his horse and heading for home. 

Loki drinks in the Vanir marketplace as they pass, a strong scent of unfamiliar herbs in the air, and he finds his attention drawn to a stall selling trinkets, strings of colourful beads— the kind that would definitely have caught Sigyn’s eye if she were here. Perhaps that would get her attention. He knows what she likes, and there’s foolish hope still alive in his heart that he might somehow win her back.

They reach the palace, and after the obligatory polite introductions, Thor, Fandral and Sif set off to find their accommodations and socialize with some of the younger Vanir nobility while Hogun shows Loki to the library. He pokes around himself, briefly, but soon leaves to join the others, leaving Loki to an abundance of wonderful tomes. He notes a few on magic to revisit, but he’s here for a reason and it’s while piling books on local fauna into his arms that he comes across something else.

It’s clearly been improperly shelved— a small leather bound book with elven along the spine, and he sets his other finds down for a moment to examine it. It’s untitled, the author is unfamiliar, and it’s coated in a thick layer of dust that suggests it’s sat undisturbed for a very long time.  Loki flips to the first passage, brow furrowed, and his puzzled expression melts into a smile as it becomes clear what this is. As he reads, the smirk becomes a smile, and he soon finds himself stifling genuine laughter that echoes conspicuously in the empty space. His brief perusal turns into an hour-long binge, cross-legged on the floor with the other volumes abandoned beside him.

His eyes dart down the aisle, one way, then another, a grin tugging at his lips when he finds himself unwatched. Baubles are nice, but **_this_** — oh, she would adore this. The book vanishes into his favourite extradimensional hideaway, and he gleefully gathers up his materials and finds a table to set to researching in earnest.  

A bilgesnipe is a formidable creature, but Loki spends the rest of the evening studying the beasts, their habits, their physiology, and has what he believes to be a decent strategy to take one down.  His brother nods along as he runs through the proposed plan as they start for the forest the next morning, but after hours wandering, Thor finally spies one: an immense young bull driven from his herd, bearing the scars of a failed coup.

In his excitement, he charges, Loki’s meticulous tactics rent in an instant, and the party has no choice but to follow suit.

The result is a mad, haphazard struggle that nearly sees them all gored by the massive creature’s death throes when Thor doesn’t quite manage to fell their quarry, striking at it’s thick skull despite Loki’s specific warnings against exactly that.

A wild thrash of antlers throws Loki from his horse, and he’s nearly trampled by the rampaging creature. Trapped beneath it, he grits his teeth and drives a knife into its throat, drenched in a spray of hot blood as the creature finally gives up the last of its strength and collapses on top of him.  

He’s glowering when Thor hauls the body off of him, laughing. “Victory!” he enthuses as he helps his little brother to his feet, confused when Loki’s response is only sullen silence and panting for breath, face pale, cold sweat and congealing blood plastering his hair to his forehead and his clothes to his body. “What, too much excitement for you?” He’s still beaming, a hand clasped to the back of Loki’s neck. “Poor Loki’s a little rattled… and sticky,” he calls to the others, chuckling, as he and Volstagg set to hauling the carcass to the horses.  

A bilgesnipe hunt is a great event here, and a feast is prepared from the creature’s meat. Thankfully he has a chance to bathe and change clothes back in their lodgings beforehand, and though he looks presentable he still somehow feels grimy and imagines he’ll be tasting bilgesnipe blood for days. 

When they arrive the tent is packed with partygoers, music and laughter. Theoric breaks away from the group of nobles that must be his family and directs them to their seats, eyes wide and eyebrows raised as he asks to hear how it went. Thor plops down in the indicated places, plush cushions at a low table laden with food, and regales Theoric with the tale of their triumph— and how he’d struck the killing blow. 

“I killed it,” Loki corrects, just loud enough for his brother to hear him.

“You finished it off,” Thor agrees, but he rolls his eyes, “but that was a mortal wound. Like when Sigyn used to finish game for us— she would hurry things along, but she doesn’t claim it as her kill.”

At his other side, Sif shoots him a critical look. “Enough sulking,” she says when his expression only hardens. “Why argue over who did what? All that matters is that we did it.”

“Hear, hear,” Volstagg agrees as he pops a huge chunk of the roasted bilgesnipe into his mouth.

The Vanir gift them—Thor, mostly— the great horrid antlers that had nearly gutted Loki as a trophy. The skin will be made into prized leather, the teeth and other choice bits devoted to Vanir magic (he manages to secret a few of those away for himself, the beginnings of what will one day be an impressive collection of powerful components). There’s drink and musicians and all manner of merriments planned for the evening, but Loki can’t get himself into a festive spirit, and slinks away as the dancing starts.

He slips out of the tent and into the warm evening air, unnoticed, and spends the rest of the evening back in the library, pouring over volumes on Vanir magic. He remembers seeing a copy of a particularly useful one for sale in the market, and resolves to purchase a copy before they leave in the morning. Dawn is creeping up the horizon when he makes his way back to their lodgings, and he manages a few hours before it’s time to set off for home.

Theoric doesn’t come back with them, so he supposes the trip had its merits.

Loki dozes through his morning sessions with his tutors, awake enough for correct answers but not his usual enthusiasm. He picks at his meal when he and Thor break for lunch around their family’s table before the beginning of their father’s council meeting that afternoon.

“Thor…” Loki begins after several false starts, trying to feign disinterest as he prods at a slice of carrot with his fork. “We should go fishing, sometime,” he suggests. “We could go up to the mountains for a few days, just the two of us.”  It’s the height of summer, so the best game is out of season.  He’s never been overfond of roughing it, but Thor is, and he considers it to be an enticing offer when he makes it. Instead, his brother only shrugs.

“Seems a little dull after bilgesnipe, doesn’t it?” Loki feels his jaw tighten. Of course Thor would see no difference, but not dull, **_quiet._** He’s never nearly been gored by quiet. His brother’s expression brightens. “I think we should all go to Midgard, again. They have a summer festival—”

“All?” Loki echoes, looking up from his plate, and Thor beams at him.

“Of course. It wouldn’t be nearly as fun without our friends, would it?”

“Our friends,” Loki’s answering smile is faint, but Thor doesn’t seem to notice. “Of course.”

The both look up as the door swings open, and their mother hesitates there, smiling at the unexpected sight of them. Another set of soft footfalls stops behind her, and Loki catches the subtle motion of her hand as she bids someone in the hallway to follow her. “Wait right her, dear,” Frigga instructs a nervous Sigyn as she steps into the room, visibly tense and eyes trained downwards.

His mother allows Sigyn her own clothing, and her beloved sunny yellows have started to make their way back among the brown of her dresses, like a goldfinch molting its drab winter plumage.

Thor greets her with a bright grin, and she smiles back for a second before her gaze drops again. “Your highnesses,” she acknowledges.

She flinches when Loki stands, his expression resolute as he struggles to pick the right words, considering and discarding each opening line in rapid succession.  _Sigyn, might I see you for a moment…? I have a book I think you’d like…  I’m sorry I lied to you…_ He’s suddenly far too aware of Thor’s eyes on him, if he could just get her alone—

Visible relief floods her face when Frigga returns a moment later with one of her swords. “Here you are. See to this for me, thank you,” she accepts it, and with a curtsy, Sigyn flees the royal solar.   

He risks letting his mind wander for a moment during the meeting, as a particularly long-winded counselor takes up a position he’s expressed on numerous occasions and Loki could likely predict the coming tirade word for word. Sure enough, his double pauses outside the common room of the servants’ quarters, and he finds her with Sif. They’ve long since attended to their weaponry and Sigyn sits on the floor, her skirts spread over her knees, with Sif perched on a footstool behind her, pulling Sigyn’s hair into a plait, her own already attended to— braided along her head and then loose into a high ponytail, a few tiny braided chains running through, ready for training later. 

Ah, the legendary itinerary of the secret girl meetings: sharpening swords and braiding hair.

He’s evidently interrupted a synopsis of the past two days trip, and his stomach sinks. “So Loki gets himself stuck under the damned thing, absolutely **_covered_** in gore,” she laughs to herself. “Norns, Sige, you should have heard him going on, you’d think he’d lost a limb. It was all terribly dramatic.” Sif must not be a particularly gentle hairdresser, because Sigyn looks profoundly uncomfortable. Squirming around Sif’s hold of her hair she glances back at her, her posture snapping straighter when Sif reminds her to hold still.  “He was **_fine_** ,” Sif continues, rolling her eyes. “We were _right there_ ; Thor would have hauled it off of him in another second—”

Loki starts as movement beside him calls his attention back to his physical body. Thor’s nudged him, made some joke under his breath that Loki hadn’t quite caught, but he seems content when Loki forces a smile. He thinks of going back, but decides against it, hands curling into uneasy fists against his thighs. He tries to listen to the meeting, but a heavy chill settles into the pit of his stomach as he can’t help but imagine how the rest of that conversation must be going: _Loki’s a nuisance, Loki isn’t like us, Loki ruins everything. Weak little Loki needed mighty Thor to save him._

The meeting passes in a gloomy haze, but he’s able to cobble together something vaguely insightful when his father asks for his thoughts, blames his diversion on the time difference between realms, and Odin seems satisfied enough, so they’re dismissed. All Loki wants to do is retreat to the cool quiet of his quarters, but Thor already has him by the arm, dragging him eagerly towards the training ring.

 

Fandral and Sif are waiting when he arrives, the ring blazing with sunlight, the shadows of the courtyard walls blasted away by the early afternoon. Loki takes a seat against the steps, uncomfortably warm from the high summer sun, and he shields his eyes against it as he draws his newly acquired book on magic. He’s been through it already, but he fears the Allspeak may have smoothed out some nuance, and this time Loki peers through the shifting Asgardian runes to the original Vanir beneath.  

A shadow falls across the pages, and an instant later Thor tugs the book from his hands and snaps it shut. Loki narrows his eyes at him, then more at the glare from overhead, but when his vision clears and his eyes adjust to the light, Thor is looking down at him, frustrated, mouth quirked to the side and eyebrows tented. “Would you put that book away and stop ignoring me?” He plunks down next to Loki on the sun-baked step.

“Ignoring you?” he repeats, eyebrows raised. He speaks slowly, evenly, but his voice is cold and sharp as a knife’s edge and Thor doesn’t seem to notice the warning in it. He takes a firm hold of Loki’s shoulder, squeezes in a way that he might mean to be friendly. Instead it feels intrusive, the heat of Thor’s heavy hand radiating through the already sundrenched black of his shirt.   

“Yes ignoring me. You’ve been lost in your own head all day,” he smiles, oblivious as always to the quiet fury simmering in Loki’s chest. “Come, join us.”

 _Join us,_ Loki thinks something tightening in his chest, churning in his gut, _do as we do_. That was always the way of it, everything always on Thor’s terms.  “Alright,” he says instead, pushing himself stiffly to his feet. Sif is waiting in the ring, the sword in her hand— a real one. She’s taken to training with sharpened steel, now— flashing as it catches the harsh light.  He can’t help but think she looks disappointed, and if they’re going to drag him out here they could at least **_want_** him. 

_Why do we waste our time with him? Why play at belonging where he knows he doesn’t fit?_

How easy it is to write mocking in the ink of Sif’s voice, how clearly he can hear it in his mind, as though she were still slandering him to Sigyn (and she just sits there saying nothing, just **_lets her_** —)

The air is damn and heavy, sweat already beading at his hairline and the nape of his neck, and he’s made aware of how uncomfortably his clothes cling now that he’s trying to move. It feels too much like being doused in bilgesnipe blood. He swears he can still smell it on him, and the memory stings like new, humiliation burning as hot as the sun on his back.

He holds his own against Sif for longer than he would expect for the state he’s in, between the heat and the nagging thoughts threatening to catch in his throat, but he finds a focus in his rage, a clarity. 

Sif finally does knock his sword to the ground, ringing with a metallic clang, but that doesn’t leave him unarmed, and he’s not willing to surrender. They’re using real weapons and he can already feel the weight of a favourite blade in his hands. She over rotates through the motion, her back to him for an instant, so close he could count each woven segment of the little braids running through her raven hair.

In that split second, an opportunity presents itself; Loki takes it, and that’s how he finds himself in the center of the sweltering training ring— a dagger in one hand and Sif’s severed ponytail in the other. 

 

* * *

 

 

The sun is going down when he finally makes his way back towards the royal solar. If he can make it to the nearest balcony, he can get to his room without ever being seen, and though he knows he can’t avoid his family forever, he’s eager to try.

He stops in his tracks at the sounds drifting through the corridor, and creeping around the last corner, he finds the sitting area nearest the royal wing occupied, the noises those of soft voices and scissors.

“You’re making it **_shorter_** ,” Sif despairs.   

“I can **_only_** make it shorter,” Sigyn protests, and stealing a glance finds her flitting about Sif with a comb and a delicate pair of shears in hand, trying to even out the mess he’d made. He should turn around, but instead presses himself flat to the wall, frozen in place, heart in his throat. “I can do a fringe,” she offers, deliberately, cautiously cheerful in response to Sif’s tension. “Do you want a fringe?”   

“I **_want_** to wring his scrawny neck.”

“Shhhh,” she eases, running a hand down what’s left of Sif’s hair, now just slightly longer than his own. “Don’t do that.”

“Give me one good reason.” Sif’s voice is thick, and there are tears caught in her eyes that Loki knows better than to mistake for anything but rage.

“Well…” Sigyn keeps that same patient, soothing tone as she resumes her work, leaning in close to compare the length of either side, “if you do, they’ll throw you in the dungeons, and I’ll be all alone,” she considers her work for a moment, adjusts something with another tiny snip. “And think of Thor.” Apparently mentioning his brother was a mistake, because the next thing he hears is a desperate rush of consolations. “Sif— oh, Sif no, no, no… Shh… I think you look lovely— but it will grow back before you know it…”

There’s a rustle of fabric shifting and the soft impact of bodies as Sigyn takes a seat beside her on the sofa, where he’d once lulled her to sleep with his magic, and pulls Sif into her arms. “Are you sure it wasn’t an accident?”

“Sige, he laughed until he **_cried_**.”

 “Oh. Oh dear, that’s… Has he apologized…?”

“Yes,” she replies, her voice muffled, buried in Sigyn’s shoulder. “But he didn’t mean it. Thor had him by the collar at the time.”  

Sigyn hums thoughtfully. “I saw his blackened eye.”

“I did that.”

“Oh,” she replies softly, then, “good. It was cruel of him.” Loki winces, the deep bruise, mottled blue and purple under his eye, throbbing at the reminder.  “I’m almost done,” she assures Sif, getting back to her feet and resuming her work.

“You should talk to him,” Sif says, and Loki feels his heart skip. He can’t pretend he’d thought about much before doing it, but this was not an outcome he had considered.  _Yes,_ he thinks, as though maybe if he thinks it loudly enough she’ll somehow pick it up, _you should absolutely talk to him._

The shears fall silent and Sigyn’s hands still. “I can’t.”

“He might listen to you—”

“—I _can’t,_ ” she whispers, and Sif lets out a sigh.

“I’m sorry. It’s not your job to deal with him. He’s Thor’s problem—“

“Shh,” Sigyn hushes again, and begins the last little adjustments.

In the shadow of the hallway, Loki struggles to keep his breathing quiet, lets his eyes slip shut as he tries to focus on stilling his heart, pushing the lump down from his throat. She’ll be done soon, and then they’ll leave and he can bury himself in his chambers and everyone will be so pleased when he never comes out again.   

“There,” Sigyn says, taking a step back and smiles. “Let’s get you a mirror. Still the fairest maiden in all Asgard **_and_** the fiercest.” Her smile falters when Sif’s expression doesn’t lighten. “Sif…”

“It’s fine,” she insists, voice still strained. “It’s fine. I’m just…” she sighs, rests her face in her hands. “Lessons tomorrow. I’m not looking forward to… I look like a **_boy_** —”

“—you don’t.” Sigyn’s jaw is set tight as she studies her friend and takes a step back, moving to the other side of the couch again.

“I don’t care what the other girls are going to say,” she insists, Sigyn’s expression still thoughtful as she picks up the scissors from where she’d left them across the back of the setee. “I **_don’t._** I just… I know exactly how they’re going to be, and I’m already sick of it.” She lets out another stifled breath, “It’s humiliating.”

“I see. Who knows, though? Maybe you’ll start a fashion,” Sigyn says, Sif replying with a dismissive sound and a rolls her eyes as sIgyn gives the scissors a few experimental snips then sets them aside. She thinks for another moment, and winds her braid around her left hand and pulls it taught— and it’s then, even before she reaches for her boot, that Loki realizes what she’s about to do. He thinks of stopping her, but he finds himself rooted to the spot as she draws the hunting knife and with a swift flash of bright metal, tosses the braid to the ground like a dead snake.

Sif leaps to her feet, rounding on her friend, eyes wide. “Sige, what did you **_do?_** ” Sigyn smiles at her sheepishly, her head ducked. Her hair falls in a lopsided disaster of shining copper curls.

“I can’t make it better,” Sigyn replies softly, “but I can keep you company.”

Sif fixes her with an exasperated stare, before her resolve falters and she vaults over the sofa to pull Sigyn into a crushing hug— and just like that the lingering doubt that this was not his Sigyn (not his, not anymore) fades like darkness overtakes a setting sun— fervently faithful, deeply devoted, steadfast Sigyn who wants nothing more to do with him. The betrayal aches but he can’t summon up anger— he’s seen what anger gets him, a black eye and everyone’s disdain. What’s left is a cold, hollow feeling, that catches in his throat and churns in his stomach.

He really must get something cold for the bruises— his eyes are watering again.

Sif releases her hold on her friend, and pulls back horror-stricken. “The Queen is going to **_kill_** you.”

“I’m going to do what now?”

The girls jump as his mother rounds the corner and pauses, taking in the scene before her and holding her hand out for the ladies accompanying her to halt. The highborn girls glance between each other, the oldest of them, dark haired and dark eyed, looks sympathetic but the other two can’t supress mocking giggles at the sight. Frigga silences them with a sharp look as Sif’s eyes narrow, a challenging set coming over her posture. She’s defending Sigyn now, and she draws strength from that. It hadn’t occurred to Sigyn that she might be doing something wrong, that she might be in **_trouble_** , and she’s gone pale as she awaits his mother’s displeasure. 

Frigga strides closer, fussing over a mortified Sigyn as she mutters quiet apologies, but his mother only sighs, then smiles at her patiently, and pets down the ragged mess of her hair. “It’s alright, dear,” she says, turning that gentle look to both of them in turn. “Sif, your parents will be missing you.  Run along home.” 

Sif nods, bows to her Queen as she dismissed herself, spares Sigyn a final thankful smile over her shoulder before hastening away at a jog, Loki only just managing to throw up an illusion to hide himself as she passes by.

The queen picks the shears and comb from where Sigyn had left them, hands them to the more understanding of her ladies-in-waiting. “Beyla, could you see to Sigyn for me?” The older girl nods, and Frigga ushers Sigyn towards her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Sigyn, go with Beyla; she’ll take good care of you.”

His mother bends to scoop the braid from the ground, and it vanishes with a glimmer of gold light. When she straightens, her eyes fixed squarely on his hiding place and though he doesn’t come out, it’s clear that she knows he’s there. The gaze she has fixed on him is equal parts disapproval and concern, and guilt twists in the pit of his stomach like a restless viper as he skulks away. 

He visits all his hiding place around the palace, collects the things he’s left there, and returns to the solar late that evening, when a glance up from the courtyard proves Thor’s rooms dark.  Loki finds his mother waiting at the breakfast table, and he’s suddenly struck by the urge to go wander the grounds again until sun up, but she beckons him closer, and he reluctantly shuffles forward.

There’s no sign of his Father. It seems the King of Asgard is far too busy to bother with the disciplining of wicked troublemakers. 

“Loki,” his mother begins, her eyebrows raised and her tone the probing one she uses when she knows he knows he’s disappointed her. “Is there something we need to discuss?”

“I’m going to apologize to Sif first thing tomorrow,” he tells her, finding his eyes irresistibly drawn to the floorboards. “For real, this time. I promise.”

“Loki…” she ducks her head to catch his lowered gaze, a hand lifting to brush his cheek. “Why did you do it?” He clenches his jaw, mouth shut tight. “Do **_you_** know why you did it?” she asks, softly, genuine concern creeping into her voice. _She fears I’ve gone mad_ , he realizes, horror prickling at the back of his neck. _Perhaps I have._ He nods, quickly.  “Alright,” she continues, that same wary, spooked-animal tone, “and will it be a problem again in the future?”

He shakes his head emphatically. “No. No, never,” he swallows hard, crafts a palatable lie, because the truth hurts too much to admit.  _She had something I wanted, and I hated her for it._  “It was an impulse, a joke in poor taste, gone too far,” he tells her. “It won’t happen again.”

“Good,” she says, brushing a thumb along his swelling cheekbone as she inspects it. “This will be gone long before Sif’s hair has grown back. Have you given any thought to how you might begin to make amends?” She nods approvingly when he offers up whatever they’d planned to give him for Midwinter in exchange for something for Sif— new armor, he suggests, she’s grown since the last set was commissioned. “Midwinter and your birthday until it’s grown back, I’d think,” she says, and he agrees easily. Honestly, he doesn’t feel as badly for Sif as he knows he’s meant to, but he’ll do whatever will make his mother stop looking at him that way, and it may appease his brother. “This doesn’t undo the hurt you’ve caused her, but it would be a nice gesture.”

She smooths down his hair and bids him goodnight, but Loki hesitates halfway back to his chambers, and returns to the family sitting room.

He takes a deep breath and pulls the book he’d taken from the Vanir library from his favourite extradimensional hiding place. “Could…” he holds the book out to her. “Could you give this to Sigyn? I think she’d like it, but I don’t think she’d take it if she knew it was from me.”

His mother doesn’t reply, just studies his face for a moment, her own expression a kind of knowing sympathy that he can’t bear a moment longer. He sets the book down on the table, and wishes her a hasty goodnight before retreating to his chambers, lit only by the fireplace.

Loki lets the door fall shut behind him, and numbly sets to work. He draws the untouched gifts from where he’d stashed them with his magic and stows them away in a chest beneath his bed. He takes the letters hidden alongside them, every reply she’d ever sent, every _yours, always_ , and adds them to the unopened ones he’d gathered from around the palace. 

One by one, he feeds them to the flames.

 

* * *

 

 

Loki stops trying.

Nothing good ever comes of being genuine, he’s learned, of letting anyone see beneath whichever carefully crafted façade best suits his current need— that way lies only pain and heartache and helplessness, but he is very good at other things. He’s good at reading what others want, good at lying and pretending, so he leans on those talents instead, and he gives them what they want.

Thor forgives him first, but it’s uncomfortable for a long while following the incident. Loki wears his best smile and promises his best behaviour, and in no time at all he convinces them that he is who they’ve always wanted him to be: Thor’s quiet, unobtrusive little brother, content in the safety of his shadow. 

Most of them, anyway. Even after she’s officially forgiven him, he still sees a caution in Sif’s eyes that never truly goes away.

Perhaps, if he pretends hard enough, one day it will be true, and he won’t be fighting the sickly feeling that claws at him with each false smile and each pacifying lie. Until then, he tells himself it’s a game, and that he’s winning— tries to enjoy how successfully he’s hidden himself from them, delights where he would have once despaired at how little they notice him. 

They don’t appreciate his wit, they don’t heed his advice, so he stops. He stops making jokes, he stops giving ideas unless he’s asked for them; however, he’s getting very good at leading Thor to **_have_** certain ideas, to believe they were his own, and of course, Thor’s ideas are always the ones set in motion. He’s certain he’s avoided disaster for them more than once this way and tries to content himself with his private success. 

They prod at him for being, bookish, quiet, and withdrawn, but everyone likes things so much better this way— Valhalla forbid he be **_dramatic_** , after all, and he buries his heart deeper and deeper beneath the unassuming veneer and retreats into the only company that’s never disappointed him.

Loki sits by himself as the Midwinter festivities happen around him. He can’t seem to find them as joyful as he once did, just garish and loud, and so he withdraws to a relatively quiet corner to observe from a distance, tuning out the music and laughter and the constant mass of bodies passing by. From here, he can see his brother and his friends cavorting near one of the drink-laden tables. They’re not surprised, anymore, when he abruptly excuses himself from the group. He watches as Thor throws back a tankard of ale in one breath, shatters the tankard on the ground with a triumphant cry.

“Ugh.”

Loki glances up and follows the sound of the derision. Lorelei lounges against the far side of the table, swirling a glass of wine idly in her hand. Her sister had done everything in her power to smooth things over since the previous year’s incident. How embarrassing for her dear baby sister, Amora had confided to his parents, what an awful way to discover her power. The poor thing, heartbroken over what she had unknowingly done.

Lorelei had tried to make nice herself, the first night of the Festival, but Sif had made her feelings on the matter very clear, her hand on the hilt of her sword, and Lorelei had wisely stayed away thus far.

“I swear,” she says, an unmistakable hunger in her eyes as she looks Thor up and down, “if your brother were any stupider they’d set him on a windowsill and turn him once a week.”

The remark is profoundly unfair, and his immediate reflex is to defend his brother, but something stops him. Thor’s pride is robust enough, and perhaps it’s refreshing to finally meet someone not immediately singing his praises. A smile tugs at his lips, and despite himself he’s already thinking of uncharitable jokes of his own— but then he remembers who he’s talking to, and his guard is back up. “What do you want?” he says instead.

She smiles at him, and it’s the one he remembers, knowing and cruel, as she saunters around the table and slides into the seat beside him, close enough to feel her pressed against his side. “Why, I wanted to congratulate you, of course,” she begins, “I hear you’re the one behind Sif’s hair,” she giggles and gives an appreciative whistle. “ ** _Hilarious_**. She must have been livid.” 

“Oh yes,” Loki agrees. He knows she’s got some kind of angle but her enjoyment seems genuine. “Beat me senseless and I’m still paying for it.”

 Lorelei rolls her eyes. “Such a fuss, really. Not your fault she wasn’t quick enough in the ring.” Now he’s certain she’s trying to flatter him, and he quirks an eyebrow as he studies her. Lorelei just smiles, takes another sip of her drink. “See something you like?”

“I’m trying to figure out what you’re after.”

“Decent conversation with someone who’s got at least two brain cells to knock together,” she says sweetly. “It’s alarmingly difficult to find.” He does laugh at that, gives a conceding inclination of his head. “So,” Lorelei begins, leaning closer, “where’s your serving girl? Didn’t feel like dancing this time around?”

Something tightens in Loki’s chest. “You were right,” he tells her, matching her smirk. “A joke. One I outgrew.”

 “Oh I am **_so_** happy to hear it.” Lorelei’s eyes fall on something past him, and a very promising gleam comes into her eyes, her smile wicked as she abandons her empty glass to the table. “You up for something fun?”

“Always.”

She indicates a short corridor in the direction of the kitchens, and bids him meet here there in a moment. He gives it a minute, then follows, and sure enough she’s waiting for him down the hall, the party to one end and a blind corner close behind her. “Here,” she says, steering him to a seemingly arbitrary spot along the wall, and directing him outwards towards the festivities as she stands opposite him. “Any minute now— trust me,” she purrs when he raises a questioning brow.  

He leans around her to get a better view into the Hall. He’s fairly certain he sees Fandral with one of his mother’s ladies, and Lorelei rolls her eyes when he explains what he’s doing. “Who cares?” Loki raises an eyebrow. “Oh please, don’t pretend that you’re happy with those idiots. At least my sister’s old enough that I never had to pretend to like her friends. Can you imagine how that is?” she says, “having to grow up as little sister to Amora the Enchantress?”

He lets out a humourless chuckle. “I believe I can.”

He tenses when she reaches for him, but doesn’t pull away when she rests her hand on his cheek. “You can, can’t you? I do believe you and I are the only ones who would understand one another— ah, finally,” Lorelei surges forward and kisses him.

She catches him off guard, voracious and impatient, her tongue slipping past his lips as she pulls him back to press her into the wall, dragging one of his hands to her hip. 

He’s missed this, yearned for it.  It’s like drinking seawater— not what he needs, but so close that in his desperation he can’t tell the difference.  His other hand tangles in her hair and he kisses back harder, so distracted by the pounding of his heart and her lips on his, the taste of the wine and of something sweet, that he barely registers the sound of soft footfalls as they approach from around the corner.   

Lorelei breaks the kiss with a languid smile that becomes a smirk as she directs it down the hallway.

Dazed and breathless, it takes him longer than he’d like to admit to follow her gaze and register the figure halted there, all in brown, a serving tray in hand— Loki’s blood runs cold, his stomach plunging as he looks into Sigyn’s wide, startled eyes.

For the fleeting instant their eyes meet he’s hoping for something— jealousy, heartbreak, anger, **_anything_** — but Sigyn merely drops her eyes, turns on her heel, and tries to flee.

“Stop,” Lorelei orders, and she does.

Lorelei pushes past him, advancing with the certainty of a predator about to strike at the throat, and stops close enough to circle her. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Do you like spying on people, little sneak?”

“No, my lady…” she answers, and even from his position he can see how her entire body’s gone taught, bracing herself. Her hair’s grown to where the copper curls just brush her jaw, and Lorelei’s hand shoots forward to seize a fistful of it, dragging her head down, and twists.

Loki feels the weight of his daggers in his hand, every muscle quivering in anticipation, ready to spring forward and save her— but he holds himself back, breath caught in his throat. She’s the one who abandoned him; Loki owes her nothing.

If she looks to him for help, he’ll be powerless to refuse her— but she doesn’t.

“You saw nothing,” Lorelei says, with another sharp tug at her scalp, and taps a mocking finger against Sigyn’s lips. “Now hold your tongue, or I’ll have it cut out.”

“Yes, my lady,” Sigyn replies, voice scarcely a whisper.

Lorelei tosses Sigyn aside with a shove that nearly sends her toppling, and she manages to save most of the pastries on her tray as she stumbles. She flees, her walking pace giving way to a run in a few steps as she disappears down the hallway, never once looking back to him.

Lorlei turns, pleased to find him exactly where she left. “I thought she should know how much fun you’re having without her. That wasn’t your first, was it?”

He tries not to think of Midgard: the chill in the air, the warmth of her in his arms, hopeful and hesitant, that dizzying spark of bright, weightless joy—

“Of course not,” he says, a touch defensively, and she responds with an appreciative hum.

“It shows,” she giggles then turns her attention back towards the now-empty corridor. “Her **_hair_** , though,” she shakes her head with a look of gleeful contempt, and tosses her long, sunset-red locks, runs her fingers through the silky length to show it off. “She just wants to be Sif so badly. It’s pathetic.”

 _It was compassion_ , Loki’s voice sticks when he tries to find it, _loyalty._ “Pathetic,” is what comes out, and his heart leaps when she smiles at him again.

 “You **_are_** fun,” she says, and presses another quick kiss to his lips as she makes her way past him on her way back out to the festivities. “We really must do this again sometime.”

He takes a moment in the nearest washroom to straighten out his mussed hair and rumpled clothing, wipe the telltale smudges of pink pigment from his face—  the self-satisfied smirk he finds there is much harder to remove. Even when he rejoins his brother and his companions, who have grown uses to his frequent comings and goings, he finds it hard to supress. Fandral gives him a knowing look that suggests he’s noticed, but he isn’t interested enough to pry.

Loki spends the rest of the evening sneaking secretive glances in Lorelei’s direction, exchanging discreet smiles, the anticipation always prickling at the edge of his awareness a welcome distraction. It’s only as they’re saying their goodbyes for the evening that he feels and uncomfortable twinge of something else.

“Night, Sif,” Thor wishes her with a clumsy wave as they start towards their chambers, his voice and expression wobble from a few too many pints of ale. “Tell Sige we hope she feels better when you see her!”

He furrows his brow in his brother’s direction, and Thor claps a hand to his shoulder. “Oh, right, you weren’t there— Sige asked mum to dismiss her for the evening. Said she was feeling poorly.”

“I see,” Loki replies coolly, trying to force down the sudden surge of uncomfortable guilt welling up inside him— no, he tells himself firmly. She hadn’t even cared beyond the embarrassment of stumbling across an intimate scene. Lorelei’s treatment of her sits ill in his memory, but all she’d had to do was **_look_** at him… If she doesn’t want his help, far be it from him to interfere, No one ever wants him— _well,_ he reminds himself that smirk returning in full force, _not anymore._ “Snuck too many drinks between kitchen runs, I’d imagine,” he tells his brother, and Thor lets out a laugh, nodding his approval. 

It isn’t joy he feels as he lies awake that night staring up at his ceiling, but that might be for the best. Joy is fleeting and fickle, carves out a place for itself and leaves a hollow when it fades away. This is interest— potential, a piqued curiosity, and as he drifts off, he tells himself that these are better. 

That night, he dreams of midwinter the year before, except this time Loki trips her himself, and with Lorelei’s hand on his shoulder he laughs, and laughs, until he jolts awake in a cold sweat. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

984 AD: Asgard, Valaskjálf

 

He must be doing an exceptional job of hiding his discomfort, because if feels like his mother is forever putting Sigyn in his way.

She ducks in and out of the solar on errands for his mother, she’s in the stables seeing to Frigga’s tack, and when they next journey to Vanaheim to meet with the Royal family, it’s Sigyn she brings along to attend her.

He’s able to ignore her, more or less, and as the months turn to years he finds it easier to breathe in her presence. He maintains a kind of chilly politeness that she tolerates well enough, though it never deepens to the indifference he would prefer— he can’t quite seem to rid himself of a constant **_awareness_** of her.

He and Lorelei cross paths every year or so, and he finds himself eagerly counting down the days as the next occasion draws near, until they next find themselves hiding away in secretive corners to steal kisses and whisper hilarious unkindness about everyone they know. It always starts easily enough, the kind of teasing comment he’d break out before, that flyting-level of acceptable mocking that’s all in good fun— but there’s no gentle caution with the laughter, no _Loki, no._

Lorelei urges him on, laughs harder the deeper the comment would cut. The jokes they tell each other sail right past the threshold of cruelty, but it’s only words, all in jest, just dark thought and secrets to share between them. The kind that would horrify anyone else, that he’s always had to keep to himself.

Alfheim holds a gathering of all things magic once a decade, to discuss problems and solutions, innovations, for the seasoned to socialize and the up-and-comer to make a name for themselves. He’d been deemed too young the last time, but Loki is overjoyed when Frigga invites him along— and the news only gets better. A few other talented mages would be representing Asgard, but none so esteemed as the Enchantress Amora… and her little sister.

“Why did your mother have to bring **_her_** along?” Lorelei complains when the manage a moment away from their chaperones, watching as Sigyn helps the elven stablehands bring in their mounts, trying not to gape any more than is polite at the many-coloured marvels of the elven capital.

Loki hesitates, but only for a moment. “Mother feels sorry for her,” he explains, shrugging, and trying not to smile at Sigyn’s expression of starry-eyed wonder as someone leads a winged horse past. It’s why she brings her the next decade, and the next. Why she tries to provide her with the finery and education befitting a Queen’s attendant.

He only attends two such meetings with Amora present. It’s in that same year that the Enchantress vanishes without a trace, leaving nothing but a cryptic note bidding her sister farewell. Lorelei is the focus of much sympathy when she visits the royal court that summer, and she plays the grief-stricken sister well.

She first catches him alone in the library, and wastes no time in hastening him off to a particularly remote corner. “I have something you might find interesting,” she says, letting allure drip from every syllable, tracing the gold crescent below the hollow of his throat with a painted fingernail. She’s in much higher spirits than she had been when anyone was looking.

Lorelei produces a book, and waves it, tantalizing, in front of his face. ”Something of my sister’s,” she says with an exaggerated pout. “I can’t make sense of it, but **_you_** ….”

He plucks it from her hands with a scrutinizing look, and flips through it. It’s a series of maps, notes hand written in a bright green ink. He knows what it is immediately.

“And if I decipher this for you… What’s in it for me?”

Lorelei gazes at him through lowered lashes, her tongue slipping past her lips to moisten them, and she leans in closer, her smile like a threat and a promise all in one. “What do you _want?_ ” she whispers against the pulse point of his throat.

What he **_wants_** is a look at Amora’s map of passageways—his cursory glance had already shown one he hadn’t found himself— but he’d be lying if he said his body weren’t already responding to the offer.  He cloaks them in his seidr to conceal them as they stumble to his chambers, unable to keep their hands from one another all the way.

It’s been bothering her, that he’s immune to her gifts, and as they lie in his bed together, breathless and sated, he can see how pleased she is that she’s made him want her, regardless. Lorelei props herself up on her elbow and bats her eyelashes at him. “Better than your serving girl, aren’t I?” She notices his hesitation and quirks an incredulous brow.  “What? You didn’t even fuck her before you tired of her?” she blinks in surprise, but the look melts into one of amused satisfaction. “Hmm,” she sighs contentedly, tracing the line of his sternum, “you **_do_** have excellent taste.”

And then, for an instant, he’s sixteen again, and Sigyn pulls him into her room, away from prying eyes, to throw her arms around him, moved to tears by the letter clutched in her hand— and he’s whispering reassurances, affirmations of the depths of his affection for her against the bright copper of her hair—

Loki scrubs a hand over his face, pushes his dishevelled hair from his eyes, and smothers the moment of discomfort, wrangling the disquiet into a wry smile as he gets up with an unhurried stretch. 

He goes over the book with her, his emerald marks joining Amora’s sage-leaf green at the places the Enchantress had missed. Loki offers to show her more, but she’s never interested in his magic, or his grimoires, or the collection of spell components he has stashed away. Her own powers serve her well enough.

He knows there are other men between their meetings. “But you’re different,” she tells him with a final heated kiss before he helps her slip out of his chambers, unseen, and she expects no less from him.

He knows Thor often finds himself companionship to take back to his chambers or wherever they’re staying on an adventure, and Sif has snuck away from them for the evening more than once— he’s not certain Fandral **_knows_** how to sleep without a bedmate. Loki sees Lorelei so rarely, and so often finds himself wanting. It seems more prudent to keep well away from anyone in the capital— at first at least— but on the rare occasion that someone willing, and temporary, catches his interest, he pursues.

She wants to hear about them, and they lie together swapping trysts like war stories. He can’t help but notice the way Lorelei talks about the men she’s bedded the way a hunter brags about game, the way Thor tells of the monsters he’s slain: victory over a dumb animal. He slips, once, and asks how deeply enthralled they are, at the time, and Lorelei just smiles at him. “Trust me,” she smirks, “they enjoy it.”  That sits ill with him, but he does what he does best, and decides he doesn’t care.   

While he’s accepted his place at their periphery, he does still join his brother’s quests and ventures— if it’s of interest to him, and as long as he keeps his expectations in check, they’re enjoyable enough as a diversion. His contributions never make it into the stories, aren’t as tangible, and while Odin enthuses over Thor’s prowess in battle, his praise for his younger son is vague and half-hearted at best. It’s only their mother who understands Loki’s accomplishments, but he tries to content himself with her cherished approval.

He and Thor spend less time together alone, but on the rare occasion that they do, he finds it so much easier to fall into old patterns when it’s just the two of them. He’s still careful, still guarded, but less so— like releasing a held breath.  
  
He starts to travel by himself, once in a while, and that’s most freeing of all.

 

* * *

 

 

“Loki, come here. I’d ask your opinion on something,” Frigga catches him by the arm one bright fall morning, and walks him to her balcony. She’s set up a table and some chairs, and upon it an assortment of fine jewelry is laid out on delicate cushions. He thinks he recognizes their make, and there’s likely a particular Asgardian craftsman loitering anxiously somewhere on the palace grounds, waiting for Frigga to make her decisions in peace.

There are a few items set aside already, exquisite pieces that he knows suit his mother’s tastes, but there are two simpler pieces on display, gold bracelets. One is a delicate weave of white and yellow gold, the other a delicate chain bearing bright yellow stones. “For Sigyn,” his mother explains as he scrutinizes them, “one hundred is a big year.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Your other ladies won’t be jealous?”

“My other ladies have wealthy families to buy them any shiny trinket they desire,” his mother replies with a steady smile. “I’m trying to find something she’ll like.”  

“She likes anything,” he replies flatly, arms crossed as he tries to escape. A gentle, but firm hand at his elbow steers him back towards the table.

“Something she’ll **_wear_** ,” his mother explains with a kind of deliberate patience. “I gift her things, she seems to appreciate them, and then they never see the light of day again.”

Loki sighs and rolls his eyes, trying to avoid looking at either of the items as though they were Sigyn herself, but when his mother persists he strides forward and reaches for a box towards the bottom of the stack. As he expected, it’s a collection of moderate, mismatched miscellanea, less artfully displayed. His eyes flicker over the contents, plucking a copper bangle—sturdy, etched with an intricate woven pattern—from the lot and setting it down with a definitive click.

His mother’s expression hardens, and she looks at him, unimpressed. His choice is worth a fraction of the one’s she’d asked him to choose between. “She’ll wear that,” he insists. “If you really want to make her happy, there’s a stall in the market selling strings of beads for next to nothing. She _loves_ those. Sigyn is uncomfortable with anything valuable or delicate. That’s why, I imagine, your gifts live in the safety of her jewelry box, and not on her _disastrous_ person.”   

“Loki…” his mother admonishes softly, but she looks more distracted than angry, and he doesn’t miss the way she fidgets as some troubling thought occurs to her, eyes trailing to the frail gold bands. “She thinks herself undeserving,” she says, nearly under her breath. 

A sour smile plays across his lips. “Far be it from me to disagree with her—“

“Loki.”

“—self-awareness is _such_ a rarity—”

“ _Loki,_ ” Frigga looks at him, exasperated, and sighs when he flashes her his cheekiest grin in return. 

He has to admit, there’s a flicker of triumph when he notes his selection on her wrist when he next sees her in passing, and when his mother asks him to keep his eyes peeled for things she might like, he agrees. It’s never really gone away, the quiet mental registering of things that suit her tastes, but when an occasion where his mother would want something for her arises, he acts on it. She likes durable, simple, and useful, and his success rate is inarguable. 

So sometimes, when something truly perfect catches his eye, he finds himself squirreling away trinkets with no particular occasion in mind.

He draws the necklace he’d found in the elven marketplace from its hiding place apart from space as he closes the doors to his chambers, dusty and weary from their most recent venture in the eerie fae wildlands of Alfheim. He considers it with a gratified smile, the long, rustic leather cord, the flame-bright drop of the amber pendant— the iridescent something-like-a-beetle caught frozen, wings spread, within it.

“Is that for me?”

He’s caught off guard at the sound, looking up in surprise to see Lorelei, for the first time in years, waiting for him in his bed. She slips out from beneath his sheets and strides towards him, porcelain skin bared, immediately starting at the fasteners of his own clothing as she pulls him into a kiss in greeting. “I’m not officially here, yet,” she tells him, smiling, when she breaks for air. “I’ll ‘arrive’ tomorrow morning, just in time for the—” she plucks the necklace from his hand and her sultry expression crumples into a scowl when she examines it more closely. She pushes him away with a noise of revulsion.

“It’s a _joke_ ,” Loki says, eyebrows raised as he shrugs off his coat and abandons it over an armchair.  

“It’s disgusting.”

“If you don’t want it—”

“No,” she replies curtly, disappearing it with a wave of her hand. “I’m keeping it— but get me something better next time.”

They avoid being seen together, but today, having just arrived in the capital for the inter-realm summit his father calls once a century, it’s inconspicuous for them to sit together over wine and a light meal, merely the Second Prince of Asgard entertaining an esteemed guest. They watch as servants mill about in preparation for the following evening’s feast, busy as an anthill. His mother is overseeing the preparations, her ladies gathered about her chatting and working at delicate needlecraft spread in their laps. At the edge of the circle, closest to Frigga, more interested in the planning than the small talk, Sigyn has the hem of one of her dresses stretched across the hoop, and if it’s the same— ah. Beside her, Beyla, at work on something more delicate (traditional, geometric patterns in delicate gold thread), leans over to inspect Sigyn’s work and the many small hanks of bright colours arranged beside her, and she raises a disconcerted eyebrow. 

Lorelei’s caught him watching. “What is it?” she says, brows dipping.

He lets out an airy chuckle. “If it’s the same one she’s been working on, a repeating border of frogs, lily pads and cattails. There’s space for more, Norns only know what she means to cram in there. It’s ridiculous,” he admits with an amused roll of his eyes, but Lorelei only looks disgusted until a sly expression creepy across her face. She beckons him closer with a cooked finger, voice low.

“Loki,” she begins, her honeyed voice promising trouble, “how about a trick? Something humiliating. Her,” she indicates Sigyn with a sharp jab of her well-manicured finger. “Do something to her.”  

“No.”  It slips out before he has a chance to think, but resolute, certain, and across the table, Lorelei’s expression darkens.

“No?”

“No,” he repeats, choosing a light tone, playful. Lorlei sees men as playthings and women as obstacles— that he is at once both and neither has always been a cornerstone of their relationship. “I thought you liked that about me. That I could tell you no.”

“I like that you can,” she says, eyes flashing, her voice just a touch too sweet. “I hate that you do ** _._** I don’t like being denied.”  

“And I don’t like being tested,” he replies, sitting up straighter to stare back through narrowed eyes. Lorelei’s always prodding at that scarred over place in his heart, testing Loki’s loyalty— urging him to ridicule her, embarrass her, reveal things Lorelei could use, never satisfied with his assurances that a half-feral handmaiden of his mother’s is beneath her concern. “ _You’re_ the one that’s preoccupied. My reluctance is purely practical— or are you _looking_ to antagonize my mother and the Lady Sif at once?” Her shoulders tense and she sits back, drawing a slow breath in through clenched teeth. So that’s it.

She changes tactics, smoothing down the sharpness in her voice through a placating smile. “Come on. Make her see spiders in her hair, snakes, leeches, _something_. Please,” she says, letting her hand rest on his arm, “for me.”    

It would do no good. He can remember so clearly being coiled within her cloak on a cool day, warm against her collarbone as she giggles, chasing frogs and peeling leeches from one another after falling in, neither able to simply jolt them, sizzling, from their bodies the way Thor did involuntarily. He remembers her gathering a great black spider in her hands, gently, carefully, and—

“That’s childish.”                                                         

“Snakes in the punch bowl?”

“I was a child.”

“Fine then,” she pouts, rolling her eyes. “I beseech thee, O God of Mischief— show me your worst.”

He thinks for a moment, eyes passing over the hall, before an idea strikes him and he meets Lorelei’s challenging stare with a smirk. He finds Fimafeng hastening about and, stealing a glance down at the seating chart in his hand, pulls him aside to relate the very alarming news the Lady Lorelei had just shared with him, of the Asgardian nobleman who had just caught his wife in bed with an emissary from Alfheim. Best keep them far apart, he cautions with grave solemnity, watching the colour rise in the old toad’s face as he glances down at his calamitous seating arrangement.

He sits back down next to Lorelei, basking in it as the Hall erupts into chaos. He hears muttering about other conflicts that arise when swaps are made, this guest too close to that, this guest separated from their partner, the Ice Elves all now directly beside the longfire—

Sigyn gets up from her sewing and taps Fimafeng on the shoulder. Loki sees him raving to her about his troubles for a moment, before she gently eases the clipboard from his hand, and flips back to the original layout. “What about this…?” he can barely make out her suggestions from here— put some of the Vanir an elven mages together, they have a friendly rivalry, but nothing too distracting, and she offers up her own seat to an Elven dignitary to make things easier. “Which puts me next to… Theoric,” she offers, and Fimafeng furrows his brows at the new arrangement, suspicious but not finding any trouble with it. Her easy smile falters, and Sigyn’s brows furrow. “Wait, where did you hear about this trouble, anyway?” She asks, and as Fimafeng looks over to him a dull horror creeps over his face. 

Loki grins, waving with an audacious twiddle of his fingers, and Fimafeng turns the colour of an overripe tomato before stalking off.

“Fun’s over,” Loki sighs, slumps back against the table with the kind of sated smile and boneless contentment one usually associates with more lascivious endeavours. “It’s not just about Sigyn, is it? It’s about _Sif_ ,” he eyes her, knowing immediately from her discomfort that his earlier conclusions were right.

“So full of herself,” Lorelei seethes. “I’m an excellent swordswoman myself— better, in fact— but you don’t see me running around in armor like a Valkyrie, like a **_man_** ,” she spits the last word with obvious contempt. 

Loki smiles, suggests she prove it, and they soon find themselves in an abandoned training area, not quite cloaked, but willed uninteresting. A careful pressure of his magic would find any onlooker suddenly interested in looking past them. She’s familiar with a sword to be sure, and not unskilled, but he has the upper hand, and she kisses him the moment she finds herself losing. Kissing leads to touching, and groping, and fumbling back to his rooms under the cover of his magic, and he’s suddenly certain of why she hates Sif so fiercely.

Apart from his parents, there are only two real threats to Lorelei in all of Asgard— and one she has wrapped around her little finger.

 _How convenient,_ cautions a treacherous little thought.

 

* * *

 

 

He starts to travel often on his own, slipping away to Midgard or Alfheim or even taking a ship from Niðavellir to explore the cosmos outside of the Nine— Xandar and Knowhere and everywhere in between. He doubts anyone notices him disappearing for months at a time, but when he’s home, he’s attentive to his duties. He keeps up with events, attends meetings, studies his Statecraft.

Technically, Odin has yet to name his successor.

It will be Thor. Everyone knows full well it will be Thor, but it’s still his duty to be ready, if it should ever fall to him, if Thor were indisposed and needed him to step in the way his Mother does for the Allfather. As Thor is yet unmarried with no heirs, Loki will still be next in line.

Sometimes he catches himself thinking, especially on those days where he sits in session with his father and listens to civilian troubles and difficulties, noble grievances, and Thor is nowhere to be found…  What if Thor doesn’t want it? All this responsibility, this obligation, the compromise and the wheedling and the negotiations like pulling teeth…

No, he realizes with a sigh, and comes to the conclusion that always interrupts his daydreams: in the end, he’ll just do these things on King Thor’s behalf— the difficult, tedious, thankless things.

He schedules himself another trip as soon as possible—Midgard, this time, he hasn’t been to Tønsberg in a while, and things in the area are just chaotic enough to be interesting. They don’t worship Asgard as they used to, but the stories persist. As long as he’s discreet he should be able to cause an _enjoyable_ amount of mischief and leave everyone he meets with some fanciful tales about a peculiar traveller and some strange coincidences.   

He’s not sure what compels him to contacts Lorelei to let her know where he’ll be— perhaps only to keep her from waiting naked in his room while he won’t be there to appreciate it. So he’s more than a little surprised when, late on the second night in town, someone taps his shoulder as he tolerates a pint of what passes for ale in Midgard. Lorelei slides, grinning, in to the space beside him on the bench.

“I want to show you something,” she says, leading him out into the alleyway behind the alehouse. He follows her out into the darkness, two solid black shapes waiting silently. “Go on,” she encourages, “take a look.” With a quick glance over his shoulder for inquisitive mortal eyes, a witchlight springs to life in his palm, casting the alley in an eerie green glow. The two humans standing there, staring into space, fail to react in any way, and he creeps closer, inspecting their glazed expressions.

 Lorelei smiles. “They’ll do anything I ask of them,” she says, giddy excitement in her voice. “Anything. I could ask them to fight to the death for me, and they’d do it.”

Lorelei compels with her voice, the effect strengthened by touch, but this is beyond anything she’s ever shown him. “How…?”

She raises an eyebrow, trailing a pointed nail along one man’s chin. “I think you know. Don’t be jealous— you can have one, if you like. This one’s pretty.”

“I’ll pass. I rather prefer my bedmates to be… cognisant.”  Loki swallows hard, looking into the other dazed mortal’s eyes and finding him completely unresponsive. He waves the witchlight before the man’s face, and his pupils contract too slowly, oblivious to the light, his gaze trained only on Lorelei as she moves across the alley. There’s an unease prickling at the back of his neck, but he stamps it down easily enough. “Fascinating,” he says instead.  “How long will they stay like this?”

“I’m not sure,” she replies, seemingly pleased by his interest. “I suppose we’ll see.”

She shoos them away but doesn’t relinquish her hold over their minds. Lorelei instructs them to go about their business, and with a mumbled assent, they both shamble off into the night.

They spend the rest of the week together, shielded from prying and scrying by Loki’s magic. The town has expanded from the tiny settlement he’d first visited hundreds of years before. It’s hard to explain why he stops in front of a defaced runestone at the edge of town. “It **_was_** Laufey,” he explains when she asks, and though he doesn’t lie, he doesn’t deny credit for it either.

Lorelei’s not nearly as interested in people-watching as Loki is, to just sit and observe, eavesdrop and occasionally, engage. He likes to see how things have changed. He likes to find storytellers— sailors returned from voyages, elders entertaining gaggles of wide-eyed children, poets and drunkards, anyone and everyone, and it’s always a treat to hear how the stories about themselves have been exaggerated and warped over time.

(There’s one about himself he somehow never happens across, not until Thor tells him centuries later.) 

Lorelei’s favourite pastime is to find couples— young lover arm in arm, husbands out with their wives and children, partners in their twilight years— and lure the man away in full view of their loved ones, then discard him the moment she has him.

Food, clothes, trinkets, anything she wants she simply takes if the keeper is vulnerable to her power.

It’s… crude, he’ll admit, but he’d be lying if he said his own mischief never went too far— and they are, after all, only mortals.    

It’s the morning they set out for the Bifrost site, further out into the forest than it had once been, far, far away from mortal eyes— their story, about what a coincidence it was to have encountered each other, ready— that Loki noticed a commotion in the street as they’re leaving the inn, and he discreetly asks a passer-by what’s happened.

Two young local men had killed each other in a drunken brawl late the night before, torn to shreds with bare hands and teeth in the alleyway behind the tavern. Unthinkable, she tells him. Such nice young men.

 _They’re only mortals_ , he reminds himself as they set off into the forest, Lorelei wearing a secretive smile all the way back to Asgard. _Fragile, fleeting, inferior_. 

_(She fell to her knees at the panicked girl’s side, whispering gentle reassurances. No harm done. Please, Peace, friend. She let out a peal of self-effacing laughter, pressing the pitcher back into the girl’s hands. Wine, and glass and blood everywhere, she told her. The party had still been underway when they’d taken their leave, the villagers merry and joyful and sad to see them go, eager to see them return._

_And he had meant it, meant every word when he’d proposed they stay. She was right, they’d likely have been dragged back sooner or later, but what if they hadn’t? He had managed to protect her from the darkness in them— the warring, the slaving, the way they would offer up their own kind for slaughter— but they could have shown them better, could have protected them from themselves, together—)_

Lorelai takes his politely offered arm, braces herself against his side, pressed just close enough to raise eyebrows but still shy of blatant as he calls for Heimdall, and as the Bifrost surges down and drags them upwards, Loki feels his heart plunge.

_They were only mortals._

 

* * *

 

 

“So,” Lorelei begins, smirking as she props herself up on her elbow. “Sif and Haldor. About time the poor fool moved on from your brother. As if Thor would ever see her as anything but another warrior. She’s got about as much chance with him as that great fat oaf.” 

“Volstagg is engaged to be married, so I’d say he’s out of the running,” Loki replies dryly, a smile playing across his lips. “I’d actually been meaning to tell you—”

“I’m an excellent warrior,” Lorelei continues, “you don’t see me running around in armor like some kind of—”

“Yes, yes. So you’ve mentioned.” He reaches over to rest a hand on her bared shoulder, and she finally seems to realize he’s talking to her. “Lorelei,” he begins evenly, trying to tiptoe the delicate balance between letting her know he’s serious and scaring her away. “Volstagg and Hildegund’s wedding. It will be quite an event— it should be worth it for the food alone, really, and if you’d like, you could attend,” he takes a breath, wets his lips, “with me. Officially.” 

Beside him, Lorelei’s smile falters. “No,” she says, her expression darkening, “I’m not particularly interested in weddings.”  
  
“Midwinter, then,” he offers, brows furrowing when she slips out of bed and starts pacing the room for the clothes they’d strewn about the previous evening. “Lorelei, just consider it,” Loki replies, a familiar kind of unease creeping down his spine as he pushes himself to sitting. “I enjoy a clandestine endeavour as much as the next trickster god, but aren’t you tired of this? We’ve been skulking about for centuries, stealing a few hours together every few years… I’m offering you _more._ ” Loki’s not blind to her desires, he knows full well that she enjoys more than just his company— his influence, wealth, power…  

“And I like our arrangement as it is.” Lorelei’s voice is clipped. She finds her dress and drapes it over her arm, and starts stalking about the room looking for the rest of her things. 

“I have no interest in trying to control you,” he assures her, still watching her dart about like she’s trying to escape. “You’d be free to do as you like. With no more discretion than usual, anyway—”   

Lorelei stops and turns to face him, studying him for a moment, her green eyes searching.  She strides closer, laying her things across the foot of the bed before carefully sitting beside him, and taking his hand in hers. Her other hand rests against his jaw, her thumb brushing his cheekbone. He blinks at her in surprise at the unusual display. She’s not usually a fan of tenderness— all clawing and passion and urgency— but she’s looking him in the eye and his heart aches. “Loki,” she begins sweetly as he can’t help but lean into her touch, “do I strike you as someone who would settle for being _princess?_ ”  

Understanding crashes down on him like a frigid tidal wave, and he’s paralyzed by it. She can’t be seen with **_him_** , because that would make it difficult to pursue her real target.

There was a game he and Sigyn used to play as children, trying to guess someone’s fylgja— the animal that best spoke to their spirit. He remembers Sigyn guessing wrong all those years ago, and aside from that he’s never given it much thought, never wanted to dwell on any of their games for longer than it takes to wave the thought away. He’s never seen her as anything in his dreams, but Loki is certain now: she’s a spider, the kind that eats the male when she’s done with him.

“Thor,” he says, the words falling numbly from his lips. “You’re after Thor.” 

“He’s going to be king,” she says simply in that same falsely innocent, saccharine pout, “unless, of course, you’re willing to do something about him…?”

“I’m happy to provide my brother with opportunities to make an ass of himself,” Loki finds his mouth’s gone dry, “but what you’re suggesting— he’s my **_brother_** —”

There’s a deadly glimmer to her smile as she inclines her head, letting her red hair slip down her shoulder. “You get used to it,” she purrs, “no one’s seen Amora in a very, very long time…”

Something in her voice, in her eyes, falters and he knows she’s lying. She hasn’t killed her sister, but she’d like him to believe that she did. He feels detached from himself, dazed and heavy and in freefall at once, he wants to be revolted but there’s still a part of him scrambling to salvage this. She hasn’t **_done_** anything yet, it’s all just ideas. He can forget she ever suggested it, they can go back to what they had, he just needs to convince her.

“It could still be me,” he says, hating how small his voice sounds, and her hand drifts from his cheek to cover her own mouth as she stares at him— and then her shoulders tremble as a startled giggle slips through her lips, and she’s laughing.

“Oh,” she exclaims her eyebrows knitting in something that definitely isn’t sympathy, “Oh no, you really believe that don’t you? You want them to **_choose_** you— how adorable. How **_cute_** ,” Loki bristles. He’s ready to snarl a retort but she silences him with a condescending hush. “Odin has his golden son. You’re the spare, the understudy. The only way you’ll ever sit that throne is as the last man standing, and you know it.”

Lorelei mistakes the nature of his horror-stricken silence. “Don’t be jealous,” she cautions, smiling at him encouragingly. “He’s just a means to an end. Once I have him in my thrall and I’m made Queen of Asgard, you and I can do as we please. **_We’ll_** be the ones really ruling, you’ll see. I can take his mind easily enough, but there’s your parents to contend with. With **_your_** help, though, no one will ever be the wiser—”

“Get out,” Loki says, his voice shaking with the force of his restraint.

Lorelei stops her enthused plotting, staring down at him in indignant shock, her look of disbelief following him as he stands. “Excuse me?”

“I said _get out_.” Even towering over her he feels suddenly vulnerable this way, and a green flash of his magic slips his clothing back over his body— the layers of cloth and leather between them a reassurance. Lorelei, for her part, doesn’t seem to mind being naked, and she draws herself up to her full height, unflinching, eyes narrowing at him in challenge.      

“You’re really going to choose that mindless brute over me? Do you even like him?”

“He’s my brother,” Loki replies through clenched teeth, “I _love_ him.”   

“Does he love you, though? The _real_ you, I mean, the one I know.” She seems to notice the flicker of uncertainty that crosses his face then, because a cruel smile pulls at her lips. “How could he? How could _anyone_? No one else will ever understand you as I do.”

Loki’s eyes never leave hers, his jaw set tight as he summons a dagger into his hand. “I’m not going to ask again.”

Fuming and muttering curses and threats under her breath, Lorelei pulls her clothing back on, her eyes blazing at him all the while. “You’re going to regret this,” she promises.  

“I’m beginning to regret a great many things about you.”

He cloaks her in his magic and she makes her way from his chambers in the guise of his most recent bedmate besides her— one of the stablehands: male, common, everything she looks down upon. She glowers at him from beneath the young Ás’ handsome features, lingers for a moment as though she’s still hoping he’ll reconsider, but Loki is unmoved, and when he feels her reach her guest quarters he lets the illusion fall away, his magic slipping from her form for the last time.  As it does, he swears he’ll have nothing more to do with her.

Loki gravely underestimates the depths of both her spite and her patience.

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you certain you don’t want me to stay?” His mother hugs him tighter before finally letting him go, and smooths down his hair.

Even as an adult, he still always looks forward to his once-a-decade trips to Alfheim with his mother for the sorcerer’s symposium. The Norns had conspired, however, to see him take this journey alone, the third since he and Lorelei had fallen out decades earlier and she’d stopped attending at all.

His father had been feeling weary for a while now, and in the past few days it was decided to move the next month’s scheduled Odinsleep ahead, leaving Frigga as Queen Regent. He remembers one vaguely from his childhood, and another a hundred years prior. It’s still infrequent, but the shortened timeframe between each hasn’t escaped his notice.

“Your brother and I will be fine for a few days. We need you to represent Asgard. Make me proud.” she assures him, patting his cheek affectionately, and he can’t help but beam at her. “Besides,” she says, looking to the window where her attendant is idling, likely waiting for him to leave so she can resume whatever it was she had been doing when he entered, “I’ll have plenty of help, won’t I Sigyn?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” The young ásynja says, then turning to him, “and a pleasant journey, Your Highness.” She’s gotten much better at hiding it than she had as a girl, but he can’t help but notice that as his gaze passes over her face her own eyes drop in a way reminiscent of like-magnets.

The conference is uneventful, but still enjoyable. Of the many peoples and cultures he’s encountered, it’s the elven concept of a good time that’s always seemed best-aligned with his own- varied and irreverent, and though he finds her overwhelming in large doses, for these short visits, their princess, Alfdis, is always a fantastic companion for all manner of entertainment, be it drinking, gaming, magic, music or mischief.

It’s four days into the week long summit, both of them cheating shamelessly at a hand of cards, halfway through a bottle of shimmering purple elven liquor, when a servant hurries into the room in a panic and directs them down the hall, where a scrying fire had sprung to life.

Loki finds an image of his mother waiting there, and when she looks up at him, her expression drawn, wringing her hands, he knows at once that something is terribly wrong.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Devil (XV): Unhealthy relationships, addiction, temptation and giving in to it. Reversed: exploring dark thoughts, breaking free of things holding you back 
> 
> I'd like to start by saying thank you so much to everyone who responded last chapter. I'm definitely going to continue this story. I feel a little silly re-reading my meltdown, but I swear at the time, I was in a pretty fragile state, and I was genuinely expecting the response to be "oh thank god, please get rid of her," and wanted some way to communicate to the two people reading that I didn't want to discard it if they were enjoying it. It turns out there were way more of you than I had thought, and I'm genuinely floored. Thank you so much to everyone reading, and I'm so sincerely glad you're enjoying! A reminder, I'm GeminiJackdaw on tumblr (KiwiMeringue is my main there, too), I reblog related stuff, post six sentence sundays, and generally scream about writing
> 
> This is a weird one writing wise, and I'm sorry it's so long omfg OTL. The first part of this was meant to be the last part of The Lovers before it went long, and what was meant to be the end of this will be the first part of the next chapter. I'm never doing thematic naming that limits my number of chapters ever again oh my goddddd
> 
> As most of you have probably noticed, I've been using cards from the major arcana as chapter titles. I thought it might be fun to include the elements that made me assign each card to each chapter in the description, I may go back and add the earlier ones. There's often a literal meaning along with the thematic stuff. I'm by no means an expert and I'm drawing from multiple sources to cobble together my justifications xD 
> 
> Chapter Summary from 984 onwards below:
> 
> -Every ten years Alfheim holds a sorcerer's summit. A 19 year old Loki attends with his mother and Amora brings Lorelei, whose indignant about Sigyn being brought along to serve Frigga. Sigyn's just really excited to see all the crazy shit in Alfheim and is generally having a wonderful time.  
> -Amora disappears.  
> -Loki drifts away from his brother's circle of friends. He travels with them, but still feels unappreciated and othered, and is very aware of how much more easily his father praises Thor's prowess in battle than his own accomplishments  
> -Loki and Lorelei continue their on-again-off-again when-she's-in-town relationship for centuries, Loki deliberately ignoring the escalating cruelty she enjoys. She's still very hung up on the idea of Sigyn, often trying to test his loyalty and unhappy when he refuses to antagonize her for Lorelei's entertainment, citing his mother's fondness for her, along with not wanting to incur Sif's wrath again.  
> -He realizes that Lorelei is afraid of Sif, and sees Sigyn as a convenient weakness  
> -Frigga asks for help finding gifts Sigyn will like. Loki remembers her tastes well, and is very good at picking things out for her on his mother's behalf. She still likes her cheap, sturdy peasant things, and can't enjoy finery for fear of ruining it.  
> -She meets him in Midgard on a trip. He convinces himself he doesn't care when she uses her powers to completely brainwash some mortals, and he suspects she orders them to kill eachother the night before they leave.  
> -Sif has started seeing someone named Haldor (as mentioned in the AOS episode they're in)  
> -Lorelei resists Loki's attempts to court her formally, and he realizes it's because she's really after Thor.  
> -Lorelei proposes enthralling Thor, and using him as their puppet. Loki refuses, and orders her to leave. Lorelei taunts him about his insecurities, that Odin will never name him as his successor, and that it's adorable that he would want him to. They threaten each other, and part on very bad terms.  
> ~Thirty years later, Loki travels to the Elven socerers meeting by himself, as his father has entered the Odinsleep, Frigga must act as queen regent, and Lorelei hasn't been back to the capital since their falling out. While partying with the Elven princess Alfdis, his mother contacts him with some urgent news.


End file.
